


Not Fast Enough

by My_Dear_Hammy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Extreme sarcasm, Extremely Slow Burn, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Motorcycles, Racing, Sarcasm, Seriously., Slow Burn, cant have jamilton and no sarcasm, hamilton is extremely blunt, injuries, wheelchair, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-25 08:12:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 36,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13830084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Dear_Hammy/pseuds/My_Dear_Hammy
Summary: JamiltonHurt/Comfort ficHamilton gets into a run of bad luck, but everyone's luck has to turn around eventually, right?  Is the accident good luck? Or bad? Hamilton always goes a bit too fast, but this one time, is he going fast enough?Jefferson doesn't understand why he gets called until he arrives. Before he knows it, he's got more on his plate than he can handle.Jefferson shows up at the hospital for getting called in as an emergency contact. The question he wants answered: Why would Hamilton put him as his emergency contact?And now his job is at stake, great.





	1. Pushing Luck

It just seems to be one of those days where everything goes wrong. First, his alarm clock never goes off, then his coffee pot breaks, a shoelace snaps. He 'accidentally' throws said shoe through the window in frustration. He'd been aiming at the couch, okay? It isn't his fault that the window is a cheap ass, outdated, single pane window that would break if a fly lands on it wrong.

But every run of bad luck has to turn around sometime and things were finally looking up.

Specifically, uphill.

Hamilton leans forward, the toes of his booted foot working through the gears, his fingers keeping the clutch engaged. It clicks into place and the clutch releases, speeding him uphill. His arms and back were beginning to ache from such a long ride, even more so, his ass. Ducatis were fast, but not the best for multiple hour rides. Many would laugh at the glossy, dark, emerald green paint that decorated his ride, but when it really came down to it, it's eye-catching and hot. Exactly the point. Not to mention it goes perfectly with the green trim of his black riding gear. Simple, really. Just an enforced jacket, and his green helmet. Jeans and combat boots seem just as fine. And comfortable.

Hamilton tops the apex of the hill. There is a moment where the world seems perfect. Everything slows down. The moon's shining brilliantly, illuminating what his headlight can't reach, playing off the darkened bark of the trees lurking on either side of the road. It is almost as if there was no roaring engine between his legs or the loud wind in his ears but instead, just the dead quiet of the night. The slight rustle of disturbed leaves, a twig breaking somewhere deep within the forest.

Half a second later, the hill dips down steeply and the world races to catch up, every two seconds only seeming to take half of one. Everything previously muted roars back to life. The wind catches his helmet just right and whistles. The engine's rhythm loud as it works double time. Hamilton shifts up through the gears quickly, working the clutch in and out, more gas pouring into the engine and driving it faster down the hill.

The loose strands of long hair that fell out of the confines of the helmet whip in the wind. Hamilton leans forward more, pressing himself flush with the well oiled, humming machine beneath him. The drag of wind disappears and he zips along. Adrenaline pumps through Hamilton's veins and the thrill of lethal speed only becomes more enticing. He's done this plenty of times before, knows the roads like the back of his hand. Every dip and curve. Every crack, both filled and unfilled with tar, potholes, even that loose pebble that never seems to disappear. Hamilton knows just how much to lean on a turn and where to enter and exit it, smoothly racing into the next one.

He is all alone out here.

Sometimes, maybe more than sometimes, he and Jefferson will catch sight of each other on the busy road to work within the network of the city. A race usually ensues. Green and magenta streaks weaving through the traffic on two wheels. Sometimes one if one of them is feeling rather competitive that day.

Times like those and the one Hamilton is living now is what really makes his heart pound within his chest.

Up another hill, another moment of worldly peace before the descent. Time races but Hamilton's blood turns to ice and time outruns him. His foot and hand hit the breaks simultaneously, but gravity is against him. And so is the elk.

Funny, how in the instant before everything goes horribly wrong, one can notice the smallest of details. Like how eyes of the animal reflect his headlight like a floating orb of certain death. Or the puff of steam from hot breath meeting the cold air. Or how the song currently playing on Hamilton's bluetooth ironically fits this moment, his mind filling lyrics in that have yet to play. His back tire lifts from the harsh asphalt and he doesn't even have the fraction of a second to scream before smashing into the elk.

The next thing he knows, his eardrums are being attacked by a high pitched, unbearable ringing. It seems to be all around him and yet, pressing against the inside of his skull, trying to force itself out. Eyelids crack open. Blinding lights. The next thing that makes itself apparent is the unending pain that invades every cell of his body.

He must've blacked out after that because when he wakes again, everything's hazy. It starts with mumbled words somewhere close by and the stinging scent of chemicals and sanitizers. The voices slowly clear and the ringing is much less apparent. Hamilton's eyes crack open. It's not as bright as before but still uncomfortable. He decides it's best not to try to open them any further, being able to just make out the hazy figures of people talking.

Doctors.

Hamilton inwardly groans, remembering the split millisecond of pure terror before nothing. He should be dead.

Wishes he is dead.

Is not, currently, dead.

Moving seems like a bad idea so he takes the time to try and do a self-analysis. There is no unbearable and endless pain. Pressure is evident in many places of his body. His arms, where he decides IVs and morphine are attached. His legs, his head. After that, he doesn't want to know and just closes his eyes again.

Unknown amounts of time pass. Grating against his eardrums. The unapologetic screech of a chair dragging across the floor and set next to his bed.

"Tell me again what he did?" the most irritating voice on the face of the Earth asks. The doctor recounts the what they knew. Hamilton's visitor sighs and the distinct creaking sound of them settling into the chair and leaning over the bed. Fingers snapping in front of his face as the doctor left. The sound feels like hammers smacking against his ears. "Wakey wakey."

"Asshole," Hamilton croaks, his eyes opening a crack, a bit further than the first time. Just enough for him to make out the familiar, defining trait of the puffy head of his least favorite person, completely expected from the voice.

"Good morning, darlin'. Hope you slept well. Tell me, why am I your emergency contact?" Jefferson asks.

Hamilton closes his eyes again. "Fuck off," he rasps.

Jefferson tuts and then a humming buzz fills the air. Discomfort is what really tells Hamilton his bed is rising and forcing him into a more sitting position. And low groan escapes his throat. "Fucking asshole."

"Come on now," Jefferson hums, "You need water to wet that sharp tongue. Let's see those pretty eyes again. Part those plush lips for me?"

"I'm flipping you off." Hamilton doesn't actually move.

Jefferson chuckles. "Fine, I lied. You look terrible and those lush lips are actually cracked and wretched looking. Exactly why you need water." A straw prods at Hamilton's mouth. "You need water so you can talk and you need to talk so you can explain why I'm here instead of your sugar daddy, Washington."

"He's not my sugar daddy," Hamilton immediately protests. Apparently to Jefferson's plan since a straw is now in his mouth and Jefferson is refusing to move it until Hamilton has finished drinking an approved amount.

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" he asks, setting the empty cup aside.

"I hate you."

"And yet I'm your emergency contact. Why pray tell?"

Hamilton manages a sigh, making him notice for the first time, his aching ribs. At least there isn't any real extreme pain, mostly discomfort. "In case of emergency, I didn't want someone who would pity me. You were the only one who fit that."

Jefferson laughs. "A barbed insult over honeyed words any day, isn't that right? However, James fits that description as well. And I'm fully aware you'd rather him here than I."

"You're right, he wouldn't talk," Hamilton says. "I actually hadn't thought of him."

Jefferson tuts again. "I don't recall agreeing to this plan."

"Your agreement was you showing up, jackass."

"I'm so considerate."

If Hamilton could roll his eyes successfully at the moment, he would. Instead, they close again. "Lower my bed back down. I'm going back to sleep." To his surprise, Jefferson actually did as he asked.

**\----**

 


	2. By the Grace of One's Luck

 

Evidently, he has multiple broken ribs, a broken arm, and a leg so badly bruised and twisted it might as well be broken. Thankfully, it isn't. His other leg isn't so lucky and was completely toast as far as Hamilton is concerned. Not to mention the road rash.

Oh, and his cracked skull.

They keep telling him he is lucky. He's still alive and would probably recover. Lucky. Hamilton has a different opinion. Everything about it is unlucky. If that elk had just kept to the goddamned forest, Hamilton wouldn't be in this situation.

Silver lining of the day, Jefferson left. Probably home. Hamilton woke up to an empty room and blessed silence.

"Oh good, you're awake."

Fuck.

Jefferson is standing in the doorway holding a plastic tray of what is no doubt disgusting hospital food. The smirk stretching across his face only raises Hamilton's hackles. "Mornin' sunshine. Breakfast time," he says, stepping into the room and setting a stand over Hamilton's body so the tray doesn't rest on him and irritate wounds.

"Isn't this the nurse's job?" Hamilton asks suspiciously as Jefferson sets a tray of mouth-watering food in front of him.

"Poor darlin," Jefferson hums, "He was so busy I told him I'd take care of ya."

"I can take care of myself," Hamilton mutters.

"Oh?" Jeffersons snatches the tray back off Hamilton's lap and settles it on his own, sitting in the chair again. "I suppose this is mine then," he hums, stabbing a delicious morsel with a fork, stuffing it in his mouth and chewing contentedly.

"Hey!" Hamilton's protests as another piece of food disappears. The smell is probably the hardest part to withstand.

"No, you can do everything by yourself," Jefferson hums, swaggering his head while chewing. "Go get your own food. Go on, gimpy."

Hamilton huffs. He's just stubborn enough not to ask for the food back after a taunt like that. Why had he put Jefferson as his emergency contact again? Is this really worth it? The smell hangs about the room, making him more and more hungry. A recovering body needs fuel and sleep to heal. Hamilton can get sleep just fine, food, however, is a different story. He glances back over at Jefferson who seems to be eating slowly to rub it in Hamilton's face more.

"You asshole," Hamilton mutters again.

Jefferson chuckles and holds the fork out to Hamilton's mouth. "Wanna bite?"

"Go fuck yourself. I can feed myself." Jefferson shrugs and the fork disappears into his own mouth again, his throat working as he swallows. "Besides, I can't eat off that fork after your disgusting mouth has tainted it."

"Excuse you, my mouth is a wonder. Better than yours."

Hamilton's face heats with anger and his good arm reaches over and is barely long enough to snatch the tray from Jefferson. A quiet laugh as Jefferson picks his teeth with the fork tines, watching Hamilton play a game of finger food. Hamilton flips him off in the process.

God, this food is fucking amazing. Since when did hospital food get so good? Hamilton has been in plenty of hospitals before and knew exactly what its food tastes like. Eyes narrow suspiciously at the food as a possible solution comes to mind.

Hamilton decides the best course of action is to ignore it and keep it eating like it's completely normal. Jefferson seems to be in complete disgust by the fact Hamilton was completely comfortable picking apart the food with his fingers and popping it into his mouth. It's kinda weird having the man sit there and just watch him eat while he is confined to the bed and couldn't move. Just the slightest wrong motion was like getting stabbed fifty times. At least he could open his eyes completely now.

"Why are you still here?" Hamilton asks, looking over at Jefferson.

"I'm your emergency contact apparently, it's my job to make sure you don't do anything else stupid. How fast were you going anyway?"

Hamilton looks up at the ceiling for a second thoughtfully. "Oh, I dunno. Over one-hundred and eighty miles an hour."

Jefferson shakes his head and sighs in what Hamilton wants to call disappointment. "Dumbass. You should be dead."

"Too bad, you'll have to wait for another unfortunate accident before you can sit comfortably at home."

Jefferson rolls his eyes, settling back more into his creaky chair. "As attractive as that sounds, I wouldn't have anyone to insult anymore and that seems rather dull."

Hamilton scoffs and hands Jefferson back the empty tray, licking his fingers clean.   
"Thanks for the food."

A smile stretches across Jefferson's face and Hamilton ruefully wishes he just said nothing, despite how pleased the man looks. "That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

"You forgot the coffee."

The tray is set down off to the side and one of Jefferson's legs cross over the other, arms folding. Goddamn that cocky asshole. "Why would I give you coffee? You're supposed to be sleeping."

"It's hard when your irritating voices makes that impossible."

"I think you mean sexy as fuck."

Hamilton's body burrows a bit more comfortably into his bed, grimacing slightly. "Go read a book or something if you're so intent on staying."

The shit fucking pulls a book out of his coat with a smirk. Hamilton could think of nothing more than reaching out and hitting him with it and throwing it across the room. He isn't supposed to have brought a book. Jefferson clears his throat and reads aloud, causing Hamilton to groan and wish fervently he had died.

Minutes pass faster than Hamilton thinks. Or maybe they were passing slower. In truth, he fell into a timeless stupor, the soft drawl carrying him along on a story. Maybe that voice isn't so bad when it isn't spouting ending strings of nonsense.

The soft sound of a closing book. "Mmm, why'd you stop?" Hamilton mumbles, pulling out of his state, eyes cracking open.

"Oh, you're awake. I thought you had fallen asleep."

"It was just getting good," Hamilton mumbles more. His ability of speech being slightly deterred from weariness.

Jefferson chuckles and the book reopens. "Alright then." Eyes droop closed as the voice carries on from where it left off.

The regaining of consciousness is a slow and drawn out process. But it eventually ends with Hamilton's eyes finally opening again, wondering what happened to his audiobook. Said audiobook is asleep. His long frame is draped sideways across his small, uncomfortable looking chair. Fluffy head dropped back and reading glasses askew. The book is closed upon his lap, the bookmark sticking out. So he hadn't fallen asleep while reading like Hamilton had.

A soft groan tumbles from his parted lips as the mass head of hair drops his head forward instead, resting his chin against his chest. The reading glasses slip forward slightly on his nose. Hamilton realizes he's never seen Jefferson so soft looking. There something about sleep that makes anyone look beautiful. Especially when early morning light pours in through a nearby window and makes everything glow softly. Including sleeping people. It's peaceful-

"Wake up asshole."

"You're a bastard," Jefferson groans, picking his head up and stretching out his long limbs. That chair looks incredibly cramped with his lanky frame crammed into it. His legs slip from off the armrest and plop back against the floor as he sits properly. His figure is still bent in half, resting his elbows on his knees as his hand rubs his neck, no doubt trying to ease the ache that probably formed there from the uncomfortable sleeping position.

"Only for you," Hamilton hums.

"No, you're a pisspot to everyone."

"At least I don't discriminate."

A sigh. "How're you feeling?"

"Miserable."

"Good," Jefferson stands, scooping his coat up off the floor where it had fallen. "I'm going home, and then going to work."

"Shit," Hamilton swears. "I have to call in. This is going to put me behind  _weeks._ "

"Certainly will," Jefferson says, inspecting his nails.

"Oh, you bitch. You're going to take full advantage of my absence."

"Without a doubt."

Hamilton scowls up at the Virginian. Why is he so tall? "Take me with you."

A scoff. "You can't leave the bed, let alone the room."

"Fucking watch me."

"Don't be ridiculous, you'll only get yourself hurt."

"What'll hurt me is you getting free reign in the company while I'm out of commission."

"Well, that's your own fault for driving so irresponsibly," Jefferson says, standing stubbornly in the doorway, seconds away from leaving.

"Ha. You don't say shit like that when you race me to work."

"I haven't the faintest what you're talking about."

"Please, no one could possibly miss your bright magenta ass streaking down the road."

An amusing smirk plays on Jefferson's lips. "I don't streak."

"Perhaps not. But seriously. A magenta motorcycle? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Says the man that comes in neon green."

"It's not neon, it's emerald."

Jefferson crosses his arms and props a hip against the door frame. "I can't just miss work for the hell of it. I'm going and you can't stop me."

"Like hell. You're not going alone," Hamilton says, throwing the blankets off his body with his good arm.

"Hamilton, what do you think you're doing?" Jefferson asks. Ha. Let him be panicked. No way was Hamilton going to let him run the board even for a day. Even if the air was cold in nothing but a hospital gown.

"Going to work," Hamilton grits. His dose of assorted painkillers is not enough to dull the pain once he starts moving. His chest is screaming and he's only struggling to sit up at this point.

"This is ridiculous," Jefferson protests. "Outright stupid."

"As my emergency contact," Hamilton rasps, moving his better leg off the side of the bed. "It's your job to stick around and make sure I don't do anything stupid," he retorts. "Get me some crutches."

"Your arm's broken, you can't use crutches."

"A wheelchair then."

"Hamilton-"

If Hamilton weren't currently blinking away the pained tears trying to escape and biting back his cries, he might notice the tone of alarmed concern. Instead, he's muttering various broken curses, trying to shift his broken leg over.

At this point, Jefferson leaps over, carefully but sternly grasping Hamilton's shoulder to prevent any more movement. "If you move your leg, you're going to permanently fuck it up. Do you have any idea how many pins and rods are currently holding your bones together?" he asks, his eyes searching Hamilton's blazing and determined ones.

"Does it look like I fucking care?"

Jefferson's face assumes a familiar expression for Hamilton, a scowl of discontent. When did his face get so close? Jefferson's voice bites through the air, "Fine you bastard," pushing him back into bed despite his cry and picking his leg back up and replacing it onto the thin hospital mattress. "I'll call in."

"You'll what?" Hamilton pants slightly.

Jefferson sighs, carefully tucking the blankets back around Hamilton, focusing on that instead of meeting his gaze. "I can't believe you're making me use sick days for this."

Hamilton is scrutinizing him as Jefferson withdrawals a phone from his coat's pocket and punches in the name of their boss until the number pops up and he selects it. "Don't look at me like that," Jefferson bites, "this is your fau-Mr Washington? Good morning. Yes, I know I'm late. Yes, actually, I'm calling in sick. Heh, I know, I don't sound sick. It's more of a personal matter. Oh, you want to know? Right. Yeah, I'll, uh, gladly explain." Jefferson bites his lip, tugging it slightly as Hamilton watches. Jefferson glares at him, wordlessly reminding him that this was all his fault.

 _"If I get fired because of this-"_  he mouths. Hamilton can hear Washington once again asking why Jefferson isn't showing up to work. "Look, I just need a personal day, my deepest apologies," and then he hangs up and throws it at the chair like it was a hot coal.

"Smooth," Hamilton rolls his eyes.

"I panicked, okay? What was I supposed to say?"

"Not that. Now you'll get fired."

"Good for you," Jefferson groans, falling back into his chair and dropping his face into his hands. "Are you happy now?"

"Extremely, actually. You just got yourself fired. This hospital room is completely worth it now."

Jefferson raises his head up enough to scowl. "And how're you paying for this hospital room?"

It's Hamilton's turn to grit his teeth. "I'll manage," he says.

"You'll manage," Jefferson scoffs. "Look, I'm still going home. I want to shower."

"How can I be sure you won't go to work?"

"Seriously? Fine. If you stay in bed, I'll be back within three hours."

"It's doesn't take three hours to shower."

"No, but half an hour of driving there, depending on traffic. Let's say an hour for a shower, and an hour to feed myself. Then the half hour back."

"You take hour-long showers? Do you fuck yourself or something?"

Jefferson groans. "No, I'm being generous. I was including personal prep afterward."

"You're such a pretentious prick. What do you need prep for if you're only coming right back here?"

"Some people actually care about personal hygiene."

"Some people are extra."

Jefferson shakes his head with a small chuckle. "Three hours," and swept out the door. Hamilton's gaze drifted around the dull white room that seems much more empty than it did moments before. Now, what was he supposed to do?

Five minutes later, Hamilton is very glad Jefferson had left. His nurse comes in and tends to his injuries. Bandages are gently removed and Hamilton is getting washed down, something that's embarrassingly reliant on his nurse. A grueling process, for certain. Due to his injuries, it's closer to a thorough wipe down. Not to mention his chiding Hamilton for tweaking his injuries more trying to move.

By the time it's all over, he at least feels clean with new bandages and everything. Though his hair is still unforgivingly oily. Apparently, that doesn't get washed.

The nurse is kind enough to leave him a magazine to flip through instead of staring accusingly at blank walls.

It's three and a half hours before he hears a familiar taunting voice filtering down the hallway. Hamilton is unable to make out exactly what's being said, but it's obvious that it's about himself since he could definitely hear his name.

It isn't terribly long after that when Jefferson reappears in the doorway, a bag slung over his shoulder and another food tray balancing on his fingertips.

"That was three and a half hours," Hamilton says.

"Hello to you too, you ungrateful bastard," Jefferson hums, letting the bag thump to the floor and replacing the tray over Hamilton's lap.

"What took you so long?" Hamilton asks accusingly.

"Hospital cafeteria lines were longer than I expected. Why? Did ya miss me?"

"No."

Jefferson's face takes on a look of mock hurt, a hand splaying across his chest. "You wound me, good sir."

Hamilton rolls his eyes, which then fasten on his tray of fresh food, steaming enticingly. Ah, and he's been provided with a fork this time around. His eyes drift back to Jefferson as the man reclaims his irritatingly squeaky chair. His primping seems to have put a bit of bounce back into his hair that he just doesn't seem right without.

While skewering food onto his fork, Hamilton inspects the only thing in the room his eyes have yet to rake over. Jefferson. He dressed down. The long coat he arrived in has been replaced with a soft, fitting sweater and black slacks. A simple look really, but him lounging back into the chair, one leg crossed over the other, eyes meeting his gaze- oh shit. Jefferson raises an eyebrow. "Is something wrong?"

"Yeah. I'm confined to a hospital bed. Everything's wrong." Hamilton takes a large bite off his fork. "Except the food. The food is brilliant."

Jefferson smiles, folding his arms over his chest. "It's always the small things that make a day." Hamilton's still on how well the outfit suits him.

"You look better like this, you know," Hamilton says, gesturing up and down Jefferson's frame with his fork.

"Like what?"

"In a hospital. I suggest a coma."

A soft a shake of the head a small sigh, making his curls bounce slightly. "It's always the same with you."

"What'd'ya mean?" Hamilton asks around a mouthful of food.

"You verge on the edge of a compliment and reel back. Would it hurt to try and be nice for once?"

Hamilton swallows. "Yes, I think I'd actually die. Besides. That's our thing. We insult each other."

Jefferson closes his eyes for a brief, drawn-out second, pushing up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. He leans down and pulls over the small duffle bag he brought, pulling out a bottle and tossing it over to Hamilton.

It's caught easily, after having to drop a fork full of food on to his lap, which earns Jefferson a scowl. Hamilton's fingers work the bottle around, reading the label.  _Dry shampoo._ His gaze rests on it longer than they probably should before traveling to the duffle bag on the floor, from which Jefferson was pulling out a different book. "You wouldn't happen to have any underwear in there, now would you?"

"No. You can't wear any anyway. Not until you can actually get them on over your leg."

"Velcro boxers. Needs to be a thing."

"You're ridiculous."

"My ass is hanging out."

"You're in bed. It doesn't make much of a difference. You could be entirely naked right now and I wouldn't really know because of the blankets."

Hamilton grins cheekily, setting the shampoo on a nearby surface. "I am naked."

Jefferson's arms unfold slightly in surprise. "What?"

Hamilton attempts to wriggle his ass in the sheets. "Like a wee baby."

Jefferson actually facepalms softly, rubbing his face tiredly. "Why, exactly?"

Hamilton shrugs. "The nurse changed my bandages. They cover most of my body anyway, just not the important parts. It's easier like this."

"And you were wanting underwear," Jefferson mutters, dropping his hands into his lap again.

"Well, eventually, yeah."

"You're such a handful."

"Hey, I'm not keeping you here."

"Yes, actually, you are. I tried going to work, remember? Now I'm probably out of a job."

Hamilton's teeth worry at his lip for a short second. "Good for me." He didn't want to be the reason someone got fired. Even if that person was Jefferson. What if he had people he was supporting that needed that income? What if he lost his house? Became another faceless on the street? There were a lot of fates Hamilton liked the think of Jefferson falling into, but a nobody begging on street corners was not one of them.

Wait one fucking second. Jefferson is a rich pompous prick with a silver spoon shoved too far up his asshole. He could afford to be without a job.

Hamilton affords a sideways glance at the man. The room has fallen into silence and Jefferson is sprawled sideways across his chair, reading. Eyes focused through the thick-framed lenses that decorated his face. "Jefferson, are you gay?"

Jefferson looked up and drags his gaze over to Hamilton. "What?"

"Are you gay? Homosexual? Do you like shoving or receiving dick in the ass of or from another man? I'm not sure if I could ask it any more bluntly."

Jefferson's gaze narrows suspiciously. "What makes you ask?"

"I was thinking you had silver spoon shoved so far up your ass and it must make you uncomfortable for you to be a pretentious jackass all the time. But then I was wondering maybe you were just too high-strung from how pleasurable it is. So now I need to know which it is."

Jefferson just stares at him in response for several seconds before silently returning to his book. Hamilton nods to himself. "Gay then."

"It's rude to assume," Jefferson replies, still focused on reading.

"I mean come on. You dress in bright purples-"

"Magenta."

"-That only proves my point further- You're extravagant. And if you were straight, you would've sworn up and down you weren't gay."

"That's only homophobes, Hamilton."

"No, I'm pretty sure all straight people do that, homophobic or not," he says thoughtfully. Jefferson simply sighs. "Well that's too bad," Hamilton goes on.

"What is?"

"That you're gay. See, if you weren't, I would've replaced my insults with flirtations to make you uncomfortable and be safe in knowing you wouldn't take them seriously."

Jefferson looks up from his book to Hamilton, slightly confused. "Just for the purpose of making me unhappy? Is that really necessary?"

"You insulted my insult making. I was thinking about backup plans."

"I thought you were thinking about silver spoons?"

"Oh yeah! The silver spoon pleasurably shoved up your ass keeping you so high-strung and irritable. You must be desperate for a good fuck."

Jefferson rolls his eyes. "I can get laid the moment I choose to."

Hamilton scoffs. "Overconfidence is such a turnoff."

Jefferson chuckles, going back to his book and leaving Hamilton to go over the conversation again in his head and decide if Jefferson really is gay or not. "You could be bi. That's another possibility. But that also means you're gay so I suppose I'll just include it in my original assessment."

"Is this bothering you?"

"No."

"That's too bad."

"Asshole."

"Go to sleep. Focus on your healing."

"I don't need your advice."

"Fine, I'll call the doctor in so she can tell you the same thing."

Hamilton huffs. "I can't just  _go_ to sleep like that, on command."

"Sleeping pills?"

"I think I'm on enough meds. Just-"

"Just what?" Jefferson asks.

"Read your book out loud?"

A smirk. "I thought you hated my voice?"

"My mind will be so desperate to escape it'll force itself to sleep."

Jefferson laughs softly. "Alright then," he hums, setting aside the one in his hand and grabbing the one from before, opening it up. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"You just started chapter 12."

Jefferson nods and flips to the proper page, clearing his throat as he settles further into his squeaky chair. A moment later, Hamilton's eyes flutter closed again as the familiar drawl fills the room. Giving life to the ink that marks the pages of that book is something Hamilton always enjoys. A few chapters later and Hamilton is asleep.

**\----**


	3. Through the Haze

 

He wakes achy and sore. Hamilton's chest hurts so much every breath feels like he's breaking ribs all over again. His leg has to be on fire, there's no explanation for so much pain lancing through his leg bones and up his spine. His head aches, throbbing where he knew it to be cracked. In comparison to it all, his broken arm didn't seem all that bad.

Moving seems like a bad idea. And so did making sound, though he has less of a choice on that one. Sounds of pain force past his tight throat and he just wants it to end and be over with.

"Nurse!" a voice shouts for him. Hamilton's faintly aware of a creaking chair and someone lunging for the call button. It wasn't as long as the eternity Hamilton is sure passed, someone else enters the room, bustling about quickly. He isn't exactly sure what they did, his world unclear until the pain began to dull and ebb back into background noise.

His muscles relax slowly, his body releasing the tension it built up in the moments before. "Is he going to be okay?" the audiobook asks.

"He'll be fine, we just have to keep a close eye on him." Cold fingers were messing with bandages on his body. "The internal bleeding didn't start up again, so that's good. As long as he doesn't try moving for a few more days, he'll be perfectly fine. Might have a bit of a limp."

"Alright. Thank you, nurse."

The fingers disappear and a blanket settles over him again. Long, warm fingers threads through his hair, pushing it out of his face. Hamilton's mind is still foggy and the only thing he's only really aware of is touch. Sounds to an extent.

"You're going to be alright, Alexander," says a soft voice. "I'll stay here with you."

**\----**


	4. On the Breeze

The room smells good. Like a breeze. Warm, soft and caressing. A hint of coconuts wafts through and just like that, Hamilton is standing on the sandy beach, sun blazing down on his back, deepening the tan he already possesses. It was a warm and perfect day. The skies clear with a few picture-perfect clouds hanging on the canvas of blue. Stretching further than the eye can see until it blurs in the ocean far beyond, promising a journey on a land Hamilton has only heard stories of. But for now, his feet were digging into the soft sands, kicking it up as each step propels him onward. Slapping into the receding tide of the turquoise water of the shallows. 

Laughing. A careless, easy grin across his lips.

Coconuts. 

Hamilton wakes with a small smile. The smell fades but still hangs in the air under the sour stinging smell of hospital. His body is exhausted, but he feels better than he had since he first checked into this wretched place.

Coconuts is a smell Hamilton despises. It only ever brings back horrid memories. One reason he also hates Jefferson, the man always smells of coconuts. Though it’s more of a subconscious reason. 

The warmth from his dream remains, though to a lesser extent, kept by the added amount of blankets added to his bed. Shutters rattle dully and the breeze passes through again. It smells of city, but catches that slight scent of coconuts off Jefferson and carries it under Hamilton's nose. Somehow, the sun is at just the right angle to manage to shine light through the open window and warm Hamilton's face. And for once in his life, it's pleasant. 

He breaths as deeply as his ribs allow, which is just slightly more than when he last woke. Hamilton's gaze, after the quick glance around, rests on the other sleeping figure in the room, breathing much easier and deeper than Hamilton. Jefferson's head is concealed in the blankets on the edge of the bed. The ends of his dark curls are warmer brown in the sunlight. 

Jefferson's forehead is resting on his bicep down near Hamilton's knees. The rest of his arm stretches parallel with the bed, his hand softly clutching Hamilton's own. Hamilton stares at it for a moment before slowly extracting it from the loose hold. Hamilton's fingers curled and uncurled. Jefferson’s head is too far from his hand to reach without trying to sit up. Luckily, it’s the same side as his more mobile leg.

Jefferson gets woken by a knee nudging his head. His waking up isn't nearly and complaintive as the last time. In fact, once he realizes it’s Hamilton purposely nudging him awake, he sits up like he'd been zapped. 

“You're awake!”

“Sleeping people tend to wake up.”

“You've been out of it for three days,” Jefferson says, sitting back into his creaky chair.

“Three days?” Hamilton asks in shock.

“You've been in and out, mostly delirious. Sometimes you were high.”

“Please don't tell me you videotaped it.”

“Of course I did. 

“Asshole.”

Jefferson leans over and pushes the call button, smirking slightly. “Welcome back.”

“You look like hell,” Hamilton responds. It looks like Jefferson never left to go home and do whatever his prepping involved. His neatly trimmed beard is longer and a bit more scraggly. He is still in the clothes from a few days ago and bags were starting to stand out under his eyes. 

“You should see yourself.”

“I have a good excuse.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “I was planning on going home today anyway. Washington is freaking out by the way. He's called me several times. Asking if I murdered you or something. You're going to have to think of something to tell him.”

The doctor walks in, “It's good to see you awake Mr. Hamilton. How're you feeling?” Jefferson nods politely to them both and leaves the room with a backward wave. “Was that your boyfriend?”

“God, no.”

The doctor chuckles. “Can I have him then?”

“You wouldn't want him. He's obnoxious.”

The doctor smiles, setting down the clipboard and raising Hamilton's bed. “He's been worried sick about you. Friends only visit. The ones in love stick around every second they can. He hasn't left your side.”

Hamilton snorts. “No, believe me, his reasoning is much more crass.”

The doctor laughs softly. “He fetches your meal from outside the hospital. If that's not dedication, I don't know what is.”


	5. Value of a Life

Jefferson walks into Hamilton's hospital room again several hours later, scrolling through his phone. “This is getting ridiculous. Hamilton, you have to tell Washington  _ something.  _ You just disappeared, not even a call into work. He won't stop calling me, as if I'd naturally know where you are.”

“You do know where I am,” Hamilton points out, shifting a bit in bed restlessly. Five days is far too long to be confined to bed. Even if he sleeps for most of it.

“That's beside the point. It's not my fault you made me your emergency contact.”

“Well, who do you have as your emergency contact?” Hamilton asks. 

“James,” Jefferson replies without hesitation.

“Are the two of you fucking?”

“No. Hamilton, you don't even know if I'm gay.”

“Oh, I  _ know _ you're gay.”

“No. You don't.”

“You're just too shy to admit it. Closeted.”

Jefferson sighs. “Why do I even come here? I should just leave.”

“You enjoy the company of someone who knows your secret. Don't worry, I won't rat you out,” Hamilton smirks. “Not until I get out of this hospital anyway.”

Jefferson settles into his usual chair, silencing his phone the moment it went off again. “Seriously, Hamilton, you need to let Washington know you're alive.”

“Has he fired you yet?”

“I dunno. I called him the second day and said I was taking my vacation. Then hung up.”

“Smooth. Yeah, you're definitely fired. That takes at least month’s notice.”

Jefferson sighs, rubbing his face. “Call him.”

“Yeah, my phone got crushed to dust in the crash. Not really an option.”

“Well you can't use mine, I've already told him I have no idea where you are.”

“I never asked you to lie for me.”

“Please, your face was practically begging me to when he first called.”

Hamilton groans. “I'll call when I'm out of this bed.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“That you stuffed me in a box and shipped me to Madagascar.”

“I'd like to,” Jefferson mutters.

“Move it”

“What?”

“I said move it, you're in my sunlight.”

“Oh.” Jefferson shifts his squeaking chair over a few inches so the sun shines warmly on Hamilton's face again. “Better?”

“Much,” Hamilton purrs.

“Anyway, the doctor says that another day or two and I can cart your ass around in a wheelchair.”

“Ew.”

“You'll be out of that bed.”

“...I might make an exception...this one time”

“You realize it's going to take you months to heal from this, right?”

“What do you want me to say? Whoops? That wasn't supposed to happen? Or, I won't be so reckless? We both know that's never going to happen.”

“You could at least consider trying to be safer”

“Hey, I was wearing a helmet. I deserve points.”

“You hit an elk.”

“But I lived.”

“The elk didn't.”

“Fuck that elk. It put me in the hospital.”

“You took its life.”

“Not my fault.”

“It's completely your fault.”

“I couldn't care less”

Jefferson stands, the chair screeching back across the floor. “You have no regard for life, whatsoever, do you?” Hamilton doesn't have the chance to respond as Jefferson's long legs quickly carries him from the room.


	6. Promise Kept

The next two days are hell.

Hamilton has nothing to entertain himself with other than a few magazines. Jefferson never comes back to visit so Hamilton has to make do with sleeping, staring at the walls, and eating the horrible hospital food that his nurse starts to bring him after finding out Jefferson is no longer delivering.

The only thing that keeps him occupied is the regular visits from a doctor or a nurse to check up on him.

Today, though, is going to be different. Partly because Hamilton is watching, with barely contained enthusiasm, as a nurse wheels in a chair for him to tour around the hospital. Anything to get out of this room.

After a bit of maneuvering and several adjustments, Hamilton is going down the halls, chattering away. His broken leg is sticking out straight in front of him. Maybe chattering isn't the right term. Flirting shamelessly would better fit that description. The nurse must be used to it because all Hamilton gets is amused chuckles. No matter, it brightens his day.

He doesn't dare think about the preferred back and forth sarcastic bickering he could be having with Thomas. Anything is better than sitting in that room, staring at the ceiling for another day.

With no audiobook.

“You've gone quiet,” his nurse says.

“Oh, just thinking.”

“Thinking? About what?”

“Audiobooks.”

“Oh? What kind?”

“Mystery. Specifically, gay. The tall one.”

“The tall one?”

“Long. Long but quick paced. Sarcastic. Brilliantly formed.”

“Formed?”

“Written,” Hamilton corrects.

“You like the quick paced ones?” his nurse asks.

“Most of the time they're too slow to hold my attention, not fast enough. This one is perfectly paced.”

“Maybe I'll give it a read, what's the title?”

“Behind the Closet Door.”

The nurse chuckles. “Sounds interesting.”

Hamilton smiles to himself. “He is.”

They continue on for a while in silence. The world outside the windows catches his attention but it eventually always finds a way back to a specific tangent. “Best audiobook I've ever met,” Hamilton mumbles to himself.

“Darlin’, if you like my reading so much, you only need ask,” Jefferson drawls.

Hamilton's head whips around, much against the protestment of the rest of his body. Jefferson is bent languidly over, with his forearms resting against the handles of Hamilton's chair, a smirk framed by his curls as he steadily pushes Hamilton's chair forward. Hamilton's gaze slides sideways to his nurse who grins sheepishly. “How long has he been here?” Hamilton asks accusingly.

“I said I'd cart your sorry bastard ass around the hospital, didn't I?” Jefferson hums. The nurse takes the opportunity to disappear before Hamilton could say anything further to him.

If Hamilton could cross his arms defensively, he would, but one is currently in a sling. “You've been gone for two days. I didn't expect you to return.”

“I brought you coffee.”

“You're forgiven. Where is it?”

Jefferson hands Hamilton a cup, still warm. “But I drank it.” Hamilton swears, ripping the lid off the empty cup to look at the couple drops left at the bottom. It being still warm means Jefferson must've just finished it two seconds before making himself known.

“You whore.”

“It was disgusting. Pitch black. The only comfort it brought me was knowing how disappointed you'd be.”

“I fucking hate you,” Hamilton mutters, tossing the cup over his shoulder at Jefferson's face. He catches it and deposits the trash in the nearest bin.

“I had only you in mind,” Jefferson hums, continuing them on around the hospital.

“That spoon must be hitting some pretty sensitive areas for you to be thinking of me.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “I think you keep insisting on this silver spoon because your ass is aching.”

Hamilton laughs. “And you say you're not gay.”

“I said you can't be sure.”

“Get me a spoon and we'll find out.”

“Why must you be like this?”

“Why must you live in the closet?” Hamilton responds.

“I should just push you down some stairs.”

“I'd probably live and you'd just have to go through all this pain again. I don't think that's worth it.”

Jefferson and Hamilton explore most of the hospital. It's only when Hamilton starts nodding off in pauses of conversation, does Jefferson take him back to the room. Parking the chair next to the bed, Jefferson moves back the blankets and turns to Hamilton.

“The call button is over there,” he mumbles.

Jefferson chuckles. “It's alright, I've got it.”

“Got what?”

“You,” he replies, carefully scooping his arms under Hamilton and lifting him from the chair. Hamilton grunts in pain, but it's not any worse than when the nurse helped Hamilton into the chair originally. He's too tired to really care either way anyway. Jefferson unhooks all of Hamilton's IVs and reattaches them to their original places before folding up the chair and tucking it away. “Good?”

Hamilton shifts his position slightly and nods. “That was the cheesiest pickup line I've ever witnessed.”

Jefferson laughs, covering him in blankets. Circling around the bed, he reclaims his creaky chair, pulls out a book, and resumes reading until Hamilton drifts off again.


	7. Unnoticed Details

Hamilton has been in this godforsaken hospital for a little over a week now and he wants to burn it to the ground. He's made these thoughts very clear to Jefferson. 

He no longer sleeps in the chair next to Hamilton, opting instead to go home and sleep and return in the morning. Freshly primped and hands full of food. It's Hamilton's favorite part of the day, when Jefferson returns. It was slightly disappointing when Jefferson told him he was sleeping at his house from now on, but Hamilton knows if the situation were reversed, he never would sleep in such an uncomfortable chair in the first place. So he understands, so long as he gets food and read too like normal.

“-Hey, Hamilton,” Jefferson interrupts Hamilton's most recent tirade of chattering.

“I was talking you asshole.”

“You're always talking,” Jefferson replies easily. He pulls Hamilton's chair to a stop at the beginning of a long, empty hallway. “Want to have a little fun?” he grins.

Hamilton looks around and grins too, his good hand tightening on his armrest. “Do it.”

Perks of long legs, they gain speed quickly. Jefferson sprints forward, kicking them forward more as he lifts himself off the ground and balances on the back of Hamilton's chair, being extra careful not to topple it. It's like a kid running down a shopping center and riding the cart down the isles. 

Hamilton's one arm throws up into the air as he cheers, speeding down the hallway. A nurse walks out of a door and quickly jumps back as Jefferson and Hamilton zip by. She quietly chuckles to herself and makes a note to have a co-worker reprimand them later.

Jefferson's feet pound against the floor again as he pulls Hamilton's chair steadily to a stop, making sure Hamilton wasn't accidentally thrown forward. That would be unfortunate. 

Hamilton grins up at Jefferson, a bit of that spark back in his eyes. His hair is a mess but well worth it. “Have fun?” Jefferson grins back.

“Let's do that again.”

“No, I think nearly running over a nurse once today is enough. I don't want them to revoke my privilege of carting your gimpy ass around.”

Hamilton huffs. “Then in exchange, I want coffee.”

Jefferson laughs, continuing to push the chair forward again. “No, I don't think so.”

“Killjoy. Fine. When do I get coffee?”

“When you get to leave this hospital.”

“You said yourself that's going to be months.”

“Yep,” Jefferson pops the p. “A perfect time to get you over your caffeine addiction.”

“It's not an addiction.”

“It's a reliance. It's not healthy.”

Hamilton scoffs. “You've turned a good day into a miserable one.”

“Ah, I've completed my job early then.”

“Fuck off.”

“And leave you stranded in the hallway?”

“I can manage back on my own. I still have one good arm I'll let you know.”

“Oh, pardon my misconception. I just always assume you're useless. My expectations don't get too high that way.”

They both snicker quietly as Jefferson finds their way back to Hamilton's room. After getting him into his bed again, Jefferson straightens. “I'll return shortly, I want to ask your doctor about something.”

“About what?”

“Your recovery,” he says as he walks out the door. 

Hamilton sighs. That could take ages, what was he supposed to do in the meantime? His eyes cast about the room and land on something that makes him grin widely.

Jefferson's phone.

Just barely within reach. His fingers grasp it and pull it over, his grin only growing. What would his password be? Ew, Jefferson's an Android person. Oh, look at that, no password. How careless could someone get? A scroll through the pictures or text messages first? 

Hamilton repositions the phone in his hand to type easier. 

**To: Jemmy**

**From: Thomas**

Hamilton's thumb hovers over the keyboard. What could he possibly say? There were too many possibilities. Well, might as well answer a couple questions.

**Jemmy, I need you.**

Hamilton then opens the gallery of photos while waiting for James to respond. A lot of these photos are of Thomas and James. His bright and unbelievably happy face and James’ slightly amused one as Jefferson pulls Madison into various selfies in random places. Hamilton can't help but smile. James is a lucky guy.

_ Ping _

**_I'm working. As you should be. What do you need?_ **

Hamilton's original goal is forgotten.

**How mad is Washington?**

**_He's pissed. Where are you? You didn't even tell me about this. He's grilling me on what you're doing._ **

Wow, Jefferson hadn't even told James.

**Vacation. Do I still have a job?**

**_Doubtful._ **

Well. 

**Fuck it. You should come home to me.**

**_I thought you were on vacation?_ **

**A vacation at home. Needs some company though. Bring wine?**

**_I'm working._ **

**But I'm alone…**

**_And I'm working._ **

**...and naked.**

**_Absolutely not._ **

**Why not, Jemmy?**

Hamilton returns to the gallery, scrolling through and waiting for another reply. His smile returns when the pictures turn to Jefferson lying on the floor. His long body concealed by a massive and fluffiest dog Hamilton has ever seen. Jefferson’s face was scrunched up, trying to escape from the kisses the dog insisted on sharing, making his glasses go askew. Apparently, he had no defenses because he was protecting a book with one hand and trying to take a picture with the other. Honestly, the photo was a mess. An adorable mess. 

He kept scrolling. Lots of pictures with the dog. More pictures with James, seemingly against the smaller one’s will. Apparently, someone else also managed to steal Jefferson's phone because there was one of him sleeping.

Hamilton's thumb freezes and his scrolling stops. His eyes latch on to a beautiful woman's face, smiling with Jefferson. The next several are of just her and him. A couple of them they're kissing in. He's interrupted by another ping.

**_I'm_ ** **_working._ ** **_And cleaning up your mess, I might add. Yours and Hamilton's. You sure you've heard nothing from him?_ **

**Are you sure, Jemmy? I could use a good fuck.**

**_Where is this coming from?_ **

Hamilton sighs, going back to the gallery. Jefferson really isn't gay then. And Hamilton had been so sure. Lucky woman.

The next picture made Hamilton's whole body go hot. But the phone gets yanked from his grasp before he could actually get a good look of what it involved. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Looking at your nudes. I've been scarred forever, you know. It's all your fault. Don't you know it's an unspoken rule that a phone with nudes is always locked? Get a password you nasty fuck.”

Jefferson shakes his head, looking through his phone. “What the hell is this?”

“What's what?”

“This conversation with James?”

“Oh. Yeah, I didn't know you had it in for your friend, Jefferson. You're disgusting.”

“This was you, not me.”

“The contact name says otherwise.”

Jefferson swears. “I told you we don't fuck, Hamilton. Are you trying to screw up my friendship?”

Hamilton just shrugs. “I didn't believe you. Honestly, who admits to fucking their best friend to their nemesis?”

Jefferson's fingers tap away, trying to explain what just happened to James. “It's the modern age, Hamilton. No one has a nemesis.”

“Well, that seems rather dull. Did you get your questions answered by the doctor?”

“Yep.”

“Well, what was it?”

“I'm not telling you as punishment for going through my phone,” Jefferson answers, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

“Oh come on, it's not like I hurt anything.”

“You had me ask my best friend to come home and fuck me.”

“I didn't  _ permanently  _ hurt anything.”

Jefferson finally sits back down in his chair. “I'm not reading to you today either.”

“What? No! We just got to a good part!”

“Learn to keep your nose out of my business.”

“Don't leave your business lying around without a password.”

Jefferson sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, giving Hamilton a perfect view of the gold band on his finger. How did such a detail escape his notice for so long?

“So. Who's the girl?”

“The girl?”

“Yeah, the one in the photos.”

“She's my wife.”

“You're married?” Jefferson holds up his hand, giving Hamilton an even better view of the very obvious golden wedding band resting on those elegantly long fingers. “Funny, I've never noticed before. What's her name?”

“Martha.”

Hamilton nods. “And the dog?”

“Since when are you so interested in my life?”

“Since I have nothing else to do. Fine, tell me the story behind the nudes.”

Jefferson coughs and the book reappears in his hand. “Right. Chapter Thirty-two.”


	8. Incentive

 

They fall into a routine. Jefferson shows up in the mornings with a meal, as always, and leaves in the evening after Hamilton falls asleep. During the day, they talk and take trips around the hospital. But as of late, Jefferson showing up in the morning has been getting later and later each time. Halfway through the second week, he shows up just before noon, smiling apologetically.

“Where have you been?” Hamilton asks.

“Sorry, I got caught up in, uh, my morning activities.”

“You're morning activities?” Hamilton questioned, raising an eyebrow. “That sounds...rated R.”

Jefferson waves his hand dismissively, taking his normal seat in the complaining chair. “It's nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Yes, but now I'm curious.”

“Well don't be.”

“What did you bring me to eat today?”

“Food,” Jefferson says, leaning over to set up the tray again and setting Hamilton's meal atop it. “Enjoy.”

“Always do,” Hamilton hums, starting into his delicious looking meal. Jefferson chuckles in amusement, watching Hamilton enjoy himself. “You know what would make this better?” Hamilton asks.

“What?”

“Coffee.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Come on! It's like a staple breakfast item.”

“So is orange juice. So drink that instead.”

“It's not the same.”

“I'm aware. It has no caffeine,” Jefferson laughs. “You'll live.”

“You don't understand. I get headaches without it.”

“That's because you've become reliant on it. You've been doing just fine without it these past couple of weeks.”

“These last couple of weeks have been hell.”

“Now who's fault is that?” Jefferson hums.

“I'm not having this conversation again.”

“My God. He learns.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Feeling restless, are we?”

“I just want out of this goddamned hospital.”

Jefferson smiles. “Want to go for our usual morning walk?”

“There's nothing better to do,” Hamilton mutters around a mouthful of food. “After I'm done with this.”

Jefferson messes around on his phone, waiting for Hamilton to finish. Once he is, Jefferson helps him into the chair and carts him off. “You're a spoiled bastard, you know that?”

“It's entirely your fault.”

“My fault? What did I do?”

“It doesn't matter. It's just your fault.”

“Brilliant reasoning. I see now why you're so good at debate.”

“I mopped the floor with your ass last month and you know it.”

“Did you? I don't recall. Seeing as I won the board over in the end.”

“Details.” Jefferson parks Hamilton's chair off to the side and ditches him. “Hey! Where are you going?”

“Stay there, I'll be right back. I need to ask the nurse something,” he says, his long strides carrying him over to the nearby nurses’ station. Hamilton watches as Jefferson charismatically leans against the counter, a grin as he talks easily to the nurse. They seem to know each other with how she brightens when he approaches.  _Same, random nurse lady, same._

An offhand gesture toward Hamilton makes the nurse look his way. Typically, Hamilton would nod or something, but he's too busy glowering and tapping his fingers. She smiles at him anyway and turns her attention back to Jefferson. Nodding with whatever Jefferson is saying before turning to her desk and looking over paperwork and looking stuff up.

Hamilton's patience wears away. The next moment, he's working on wheeling his chair over with one hand. It's not terribly far, but by the time he gets there, Jefferson says, “Thank you for your time, it was a pleasure.”

She smiles, “Of course. I'm here if you have anything else you need.”

Jefferson looks at Hamilton and grins. “All done, shall we continue?”

“You've been talking for, like, fifteen minutes. What did you want to know?”

“Oh, a few various things. Your condition mostly. They said you're healing remarkably well.”

“I have a good incentive. Getting out of here.”

Jefferson chuckles. “All in good time. Let yourself heal.”

Hamilton scoffs and they continue on their way.

**\----**


	9. Should've Read the Fine Print

 

The next morning is interesting. Jefferson shows up early, grinning broadly. “Good mornin’, darlin’! How are you this fine morning?”

He gets a pillow thrown at his face instead. “Ready to cart around again?” he asks, rocking on his feet a little bit.

“What about breakfast,” Hamilton asks groggily, still waking up.

“Shit. I forgot breakfast.”

“Way to go idiot. I suppose this way I can give you my order. Coffee. Black.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes, “Come on, let's get you in your chair. We can go up to the cafeteria.”

“I'd rather starve.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Not moving.”

“They have coffee in the cafeteria.”

“Where's my chair?”

Jefferson laughs, walking over and helping Hamilton into his chair. It's a lot easier now. Hamilton has full use of one leg again and his arm. Bonus, his head was mostly healed. Just don't hit it on any cabinets.

Jefferson grasps the handles of the chair, scoops up a couple things, and sets a brisk pace down the hallway.

“Where are we visiting today?” Hamilton asks, “After breakfast of course.”

“I dunno yet. I was thinking we just see we where we end up,” Jefferson says, his mind clearly somewhere else.

“Hey, numbskull, you missed the turn to the cafeteria.”

“I want to talk to the nurse real quick, she's not far. Just around the corner.”

Hamilton groans. “I don't want to spend another fifteen minutes watching you flirt.”

“You won't, promise. Two minutes most.” Jefferson gives him no room for protest, wheeling him right up to the nurses’ station this time. “Hey there Sarah,” he grins.

“Mr. Jefferson,” she smiles.

“Is everything set?”

“All taken care of. Here's the paperwork, just need a couple signatures.” She slides a stack over to him.

“What's going on here?” Hamilton asks.

“Oh!” Sarah reaches below the desk and sets a large steaming cup on the surface. Hamilton can smell exactly what the contents are.

Jefferson beams. “Thank you!” He finishes flipping through the papers and hands the clipboard to Hamilton. “Sign this,” he instructs.

“What is it?” Hamilton asks, setting the board in his lap and taking an offered pen.

“It'll get you out of the hospital-” Hamilton signs before Jefferson could finish. He hands it back and Jefferson chuckles, handing the paperwork back to the nurse and accepting a completely different, thick packet of papers. Jefferson thanks her, dropping the packet into a bag on his shoulder, scooping up the hot cup and handing it to Hamilton. “Don't burn yourself-”

Hamilton is already chugging.

Jefferson chuckles in amusement, wishes the nurse a good day, and wheels Hamilton out of the doors of the hospital. It is the best day of his life. Hot coffee in his hands, fresh, city air in his lungs. The only thing that would've made it better would be underwear and real clothes. But he’s covered in a blanket and with his hospital gown so he was fine.

Jefferson wheels him over to an expensive looking car, opening up the passenger door. “Ready?”

Hamilton nods, handing off his cup so he could get in the car. Once they got him in, Jefferson closes the door, folds up the chair and stows it away into the trunk. A moment later, Jefferson slides into the driver's seat and takes them away from the hospital.

For the first ten minutes of the drive, Hamilton is too involved in his coffee to care about anything. Such as, where they are going. The next ten minutes Hamilton is enjoying the radio too much to care. He'd been music deprived too. The radio eventually gets turned down, much to his disappointment.

“Is this why you kept running off and talking to doctors? To get me out of the hospital early?”

“You wouldn't stop complaining about it,” Jefferson replies simply with a shrug. “Of course, there are a couple conditions. Your doctors wouldn't let you go unless they were met.”

“Like what?”

“You have to go in for weekly check-ups.”

“That's not so bad compared to staying there twenty-four/seven. What else?”

“No attempting to walk. Period. Until they give you the green light.”

Hamilton scrunches his face in distaste. “Fine.”

“You have to take your medication. At the proper times.”

“Do I have to really?”

“Yes.”

“No one would know.”

“Take your medicines.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“Bandages have to be changed daily.”

“How tedious.”

“You have to stay on a bed or couch most of the time still. No wearing yourself out. Lots of sleep.”

“Dull.”

Jefferson keeps listing tedious things Hamilton has to make sure to do. He begins to wonder how he's supposed to do some of them by himself.

Soon enough, Jefferson pulls into a driveway. “Last condition. You have to stay with me.”

That snaps Hamilton out of whatever daydream he slipped into during Jefferson's listings. To be honest, he stopped paying attention ages ago. “Wait, what?”

“You obviously can't do all that by yourself. No one else knows where you are, and I've spent the last week setting this up. They were insistent on a nurse to take care of you instead. But I do have a little bit of medical training and I had Sarah give me a condensed course to refresh it a bit. And that form we signed was a waiver saying it's not their fault if you die.”

“ _What?”_

“Hey, it's not my fault you signed it so quickly to get that coffee.”

Jefferson gets out of the car, fetches Hamilton's chair, and opens the passenger door. It’s then that Hamilton officially realizes they are parked. “Is this your house?” Hamilton asks, looking up at the beautiful building.

“Yep,” Jefferson confirms, helping Hamilton into the chair.

“I never agreed to this.”

“I can take you back to the hospital,” Jefferson offers, wheeling him up the pathway and unlocking the door.”

“What about your wife? Won't she mind you're bringing home a random man in a wheelchair to stay for a few months?”

“Martha? No, she won't mind.”

“You talked it over with her? Where is she?”

“Not here,” Jefferson says.

“Going through a rough patch then. Did you tell her you're gay?”

“Hamilton _,”_ Jefferson says in exasperation. He shuts the door behind them and gives Hamilton a tour, calling attention to rooms Hamilton will be in the most. A bedroom, living room, bathrooms, the library. Jefferson's room just in case Hamilton needs him. They end in the kitchen. Jefferson parks Hamilton's chair nearby and starts making the breakfast he forgot to bring originally.

“You're really letting me stay here with you?”

“Sure. Though if my house gets stormed by S.W.A.T. you have to vouch for me because Washington has filed a missing person report.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah. Call him.”

“Got a phone?”

“Not one you can use. Then he'll know you're with me and I'll get yelled at for lying.”

“But you lied for me, so he'll forgive you.”

“Or fire us both.”

Hamilton laughs. “He wouldn't fire me.”

“You've been missing for three weeks. I'll bet most the office thinks you're dead.”

“Does that mean I'm out of a job?”

Jefferson rolls his eyes, piling food up on a plate and setting it on the table, wheeling Hamilton over to it. “Eat your goddamned food.”

“Happily.” 

**\----**


	10. Late Friday Night

It's odd, staying with Jefferson, considering everything. Hamilton may have put Jefferson as his emergency contact, but that doesn't mean he actually expected him to show up. Let alone take Hamilton into his home. 

Yet here he is, sprawled out on the couch, shoving popcorn in his face on a Friday night while Jefferson is passed out on a loveseat. His long legs tucked into his chest so he could fit. Hamilton smiles to himself. He has to admit, this is way better than a hospital room. He has a TV to watch and Jefferson doesn't have to go home at the end of the day to his wife.

Where is Martha anyway?

Hamilton glances around. There are pictures of her and Jefferson everywhere but it's past midnight and she still hasn't shown. Maybe she and Jefferson really are going through a rough patch. 

His attention turns back to the screen and remains there until the credits roll. Hamilton stretches to the best of his ability, yawning. Jefferson is sleeping soundly it seems. Shit. How is Hamilton supposed to get to bed? Sure, he could wheel himself there, but he wasn't in his wheelchair. Maybe if he had two arms, he could manage, but one is still in a sling. Even then he could probably manage, somehow. He’s stubborn and determined like that.

Or, he could bother Jefferson. Who is sleeping so soundly and adorably. What should he do?

Answer, a pillow is thrown at Jefferson’s face. “Hey, asshole. You fell asleep during the movie.”

“You bastard, that was a good dream.”

“I need my chair.” Jefferson grumbles the entire time he stretches out and gets up. He walks over to Hamilton and hefts him up into his arms and walks down the hallway, foregoing the chair. “Hey, what about my chair?”

“Why would I put you in your chair, roll you down the hall, only to pick you up again?” he asks.

“Because maybe I don't like being manhandled.”

Jefferson glances sideways at him. “Does this bother you?”

“Of course it fucking bothers me,” Hamilton says, lightly smacking Jefferson upside the head.

“Suck it up.”

“Jackass.”

“Freeloader.”

Okay, Jefferson has him on that one. Hamilton immensely enjoys his new Netflix privileges. So he complains no further as Jefferson sets him into the middle of a bed in the guest bedroom. It's amazing, twice the size of a hospital bed at least. Hamilton loves this new arrangement. 

Jefferson yawns again, sliding his glasses back up his nose. “I'll go get your meds.” 

“Ew.”

“Shut it.”

Jefferson returns with a box full of pill bottles and his packet of papers he got from the hospital when they left. “Right, one of the blue ones, and a white one and…” Jefferson squints, “A green one.”

“It's worrying you're identifying them by color considering there's like, five different white ones.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm just not going to try and pronounce all those long-ass names after midnight. This one needs to be taken with food.”

“I just had popcorn.”

Jefferson stares at him. “Good enough for me, alright, here ya go.” He dumps them all in Hamilton's hand, shortly followed by water. He slides the box on top of Hamilton's dresser, reconsiders, and tucks it back under his arms along with the papers. “Night, I'm going to bed.”

“No story?”

“You watched a movie instead.”

“You didn't tell me there was a double standard. I won't be able to sleep.”

“Gah, fine. One chapter.” Jefferson disappears out the door to go place the box somewhere and find the book. Hamilton grins to himself. In all honesty, he just wants Jefferson around a little longer. Hamilton's usually asleep by now at the hospital.

Jefferson returns with the book and climbs up on to the bed next to Hamilton. “Alright, you little shit. One chapter.”

Jefferson falls asleep halfway through.


	11. Aligned Interests Collide

The next morning, Hamilton wakes up to the smell of cooking pancakes and a conversation floating down the hallway.

“Yeah, he's sleeping still,” Jefferson says.

“When did you bring him here?”

“Yesterday. Is that a problem?”

“Of course it's a problem.”

“It's really not a big deal.”

“You should've told me.”

“Whoops.”

“I thought we talked about these things?”

“I promised. And he needed somewhere to stay. Here, watch the pancakes. I'm going to see if he's awake yet.”

Jefferson's footsteps approach from down the hallway and Hamilton has a split second decision. Fake being asleep or…

Jefferson is greeted by a pillow to the face. “Oh, sorry, I thought you came to murder me,” Hamilton grins.

Jefferson chuckles, scooping up the pillow and tossing it back on to the bed. “Ready for breakfast?”

“Absolutely.”

They seem to have unspoken agreement to just leave Hamilton in the pajamas he's wearing. Jefferson picks him up and places him into his chair. “We've got a third person joining us for breakfast,” Jefferson informs as they enter the kitchen.

_Martha_

“Oh wow, he is beat up,” James says, looking at Hamilton.

_Not Martha_

“Should've seen him three weeks ago,” Jefferson says.

“Fuck both of you, I looked like a playboy,” Hamilton says. “Why are you here James?”

James was holding a spatula which Jefferson steals back to load pancakes on to a plate. “Thomas told me you stole his phone after you texted me invitations for a good fuck. It's not a hard deduction to assume you're in trouble if he's denying not knowing where you are. I showed up unannounced to confirm my suspicions.”

“Creepy,” Hamilton says, rolling his chair over and stealing some bacon.

“I still don't think this is a good idea,” James says, returning to the previous conversation.

“Why not?” Jefferson asks.

“Because everyone thinks he's dead or been kidnapped. If someone finds out you're keeping him here, they'll jump to conclusions and you could go to jail.”

“Not if Hamilton defends me,” Jefferson says.

“If you were in jail, I wouldn't have to face you in the board meetings,” Hamilton points out.

“No coffee for you today,” Jefferson replies.

“I take it back, I'll testify in your favor,” Hamilton says, holding out a hand for his cup of coffee. Madison gives it to him.

“You'll still probably be fired,” James continues.

“Ah, pretty sure I already am,” Jefferson says.

“Fair point,” James agrees. “But that doesn't mean the S.W.A.T. won't ruin your windows breaking in here to rescue him. It'll take a day or two tops to track down Hamilton's records at the hospital and find you took responsibility for him.”

“You've put a lot of thought into this, Jemmy,” Jefferson says, placing a plate full of food on the table for Hamilton, quickly followed by one for James and himself. They all settle around the table and continue the conversation.

“You know what? Madison, give me your phone,” Hamilton says. “I'll call the police department and let them know I'm safe myself.”

“Not Washington?” Jefferson asks.

“Do you want him to know you've been lying?” Hamilton asks as he takes James’ phone. They all watch Hamilton place the call. When he gives the phone back, he smiles. “There, no longer a missing person.”

“You realize they'll call Washington and tell him you've been found?” James asks.

“Well shit. Well, at least he won't know who I'm with. The police wouldn't give him your number, would they?”

“I don't think so.”

“Then we're good!” Hamilton happily digs back into his breakfast.

“You two made this so much more complicated than it needed to be,” James sighs, rubbing his face. He stands and goes to leave. “Unlike the two of you, I actually have to go to work. I'll keep you updated.”

“Thanks, Jemmy!” Jefferson calls, waving as James leaves. “Here, eat these with breakfast,” he says once he's gone, passing Hamilton his morning meds.

“Disgusting.”

“Take your goddamned medicine.”

“Fine.”

After breakfast is when things got weird. Jefferson cleans the dishes before turning to Hamilton. “Alright. Time to change your bandages.”

Hamilton coughs. Right. Conditions. “Okay. How are we doing this?”

Jefferson thinks for a second and goes off to find his packet of papers to consult to make sure if his idea was against any rules. Apparently not, because a minute later, his voice travels down the hallway for Hamilton to follow.

Hamilton grips a wheel and moves forward, alternating sides to keep himself going straight. He finds Jefferson in one of the bathrooms, setting a chair in the middle of a walk in shower.

“Wait, bathing too?”

“Don't worry, you can do that part yourself. I'll just help with your arm and back. You're not allowed to get your broken leg and arm wet.”

“This is so complicated.”

Jefferson lifts Hamilton from his chair and into the shower. Hamilton actually can do quite a bit on his own now. Just, in varying degrees of pain. Mostly from his ribs. Ribs are a bitch.

The next thing Hamilton knows, Jefferson is kneeling in front of him, his fingers working undone the pajama button up shirt. He's mortified. Hamilton is fairly certain he can unbutton a shirt by himself. But at the same time...Jefferson is in undoing his shirt. It slowly falls open, but Hamilton is watching Jefferson's concentrated face. That's probably what stops him from doing it himself. The look Jefferson has. Like this simple task is the most important thing.

Jefferson glances up, meeting Hamilton's gaze, a smirk slowly forming on his lips. “You're blushing.”

Hamilton opens his mouth and closes it again. His eyes catch on Jefferson's ring again. “Imagine if your wife walked in and caught is like this.”

Jefferson laughs softly, undoing the last button, his fingers lightly brushing skin as he pushes it down off Hamilton's shoulders and places it outside the shower. “That would be interesting.”

The hard part was getting the pants over the cast. And now, they have to come off. Jefferson decides to just cut the fabric open and let it fall away, pulling the rest of the cloth off Hamilton's other leg. Which only makes him blush more. Hamilton's solace is thinking about Jefferson's wife.

Hamilton is officially sitting in the shower with Jefferson, wearing nothing but underwear. Well, plus he was covered mostly in bandages.

Jefferson's long fingers set to work. Gently unwrapping the bandages from Hamilton's body, revealing the road rash from sliding down the road at high speeds. The doctor said most of it wouldn't scar. Lucky him. Still isn’t a pretty picture though. Not exactly attractive

Hamilton decides he needs something to distract him from those long fingers.

“Tell me about Martha. How'd you meet?”

“An orchestra,” Jefferson answers. “We used to play together.”

“She's very pretty.”

“Yes, I love her very much.”

“So where is she? I haven't seen her. Do I get to meet her?”

Jefferson's fingers still for a second before unwrapping more. “No. You won't be meeting her.”

“Why not? Afraid I might steal her from you?” Hamilton smirks.

Jefferson softly chuckles, “Not at all.”

“Then why don’t I get to meet her?”

“She’s not here,” Jefferson answers.

“I can see that much.”

Jefferson sighs softly and realization hits Hamilton like a truck. _Not here._ As in...dead? Hamilton decides to stop asking questions.

Which makes the moments of Jefferson very carefully cleaning the injured skin of Hamilton's back very quiet. The water turns on after Jefferson detaches the head head from the wall to rinse his back without getting his leg or arm wet. Hamilton winces when the actual cleaning starts. It's not Jefferson's fault, he's being as gentle as possible, completely dedicated to the task.

Some stretch of time later, Jefferson rinses him off after cleaning his arm and back as promised, hand him the rag and soap. “I believe you can manage the rest,” he smiles.

Hamilton nods, trying not to notice how great Jefferson looks with water making his clothes cling to his body. Now only if he had worn white. “Thanks, Thomas,” Hamilton says.

Jefferson nods and leaves Hamilton to it, sitting outside the shower, scrolling through his phone just in case Hamilton does something stupid. Like fall out of the chair.

“Alright, Jefferson, I'm done,” Hamilton calls after a while. Jefferson comes back to Hamilton trying to rehang the shower like it's a grappling hook. He covers him in the fluffiest towel known to man. Seriously, heaven on Hamilton's skin.

Jefferson's careful touch once again brushes Hamilton's skin while rewrapping him up like a mummy.

Not long after that, Hamilton has dressed again and wheeling down the hallway as Jefferson walked beside him. Both completely dry. “What're we doing today?”

“I'd like to get some work done. I have a few things I can do from my laptop. Feel free to watch TV or something.”

“Work? You wouldn't happen to have a spare laptop, now would you?” Hamilton asks.

“Yeah, actually. Would you like me to fetch it for you?”

Hamilton nods. “I need to do something productive.”

Turns out, Jefferson is also dedicated to his work. Who knew? Both of them get lost in it. The day comes and goes faster than either of them realize. Jefferson looks ready to face plant on his keyboard with the way he's hunched over the screen.

“Hey, Jefferson,” Hamilton speaks up.

Jefferson's attention slides away from his screen to where Hamilton was curled up on the couch. “Yes?”

“Take off your glasses.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

“I need them for reading.”

“Get contacts.”

“For reading? And this late at night? Hell no.”

Hamilton groans. “Fine. What about dinner?”

Jefferson looks up. “Oh shit, I forgot.”

“Dumbass.”

“Yeah,” Jefferson chuckles, closing his computer. “See if you get any now.”

“Hey! No reason to be a dick about it,” Hamilton says, closing his as well. Jefferson makes his way into the kitchen and starts pulling out items. “Do you think Washington will question why I'm sending work in but am nowhere to be found?”

“Without a doubt. He'll probably email you now.”

“And if I email him back saying I was kidnapped by insane people?”

“Okay, first of all, I'm not insane,” Jefferson says, pointing his wooden spoon at Hamilton. “Secondly, this is entirely of your own free will.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got it. No need to get defensive. You could've explained exactly what this was.”

“Hey, I was going to. Not my fault you signed the papers so fast.”

“This sucks.”

“Poor thing. Nothing is ever good enough,” Jefferson croons.

“Not this. My leg fucking itches and I can't do anything about that.”

Jefferson laughs. “Consider it punishment for crashing.”

Hamilton grumbles to himself, uselessly scratching at his cast. It isn't that long before Jefferson has a meal ready for them both. Hamilton wheels himself over to the table. It's easy, somehow, to dine with Jefferson. Conversation always flows easily, whether it's backhanded insults or a simple small debate about which is the better color. There's no awkward silence.

After dishes, Jefferson takes Hamilton back to the couch. “You know, I can do this myself now.”

“Maybe I don't want to risk it.”

“If you drop me, I'll never forgive you.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “I'm not going to drop you-” His foot catches on Hamilton's chair, sending him headlong toward the couch. Both of them are swearing. Jefferson manages to twist his body around so that Hamilton lands on him instead of the other way around.

Hamilton groans quietly after the impact. “Oh fuck, Alex, are you okay?”

“Shh, don't move. You'll just make it worse.”

Jefferson goes completely still, holding Hamilton against him carefully. Hamilton's head rests against his shoulder, grimacing a bit, waiting for the pain to pass. It wasn't bad, just sudden.

“You okay?” Jefferson asks quietly after a minute.

“Yeah, just, don't move,” Hamilton says, slowly fixing his position. His mostly healed leg was haphazardly tangled with Jefferson's while his broken one lay straight along with the edge of the couch. His good arm released from where it had been looped backward around Jefferson's neck to hang on for dear life, cradling his injured one instead. Jefferson's arms were around his waist from trying to protect him from the fall and hadn't moved per Hamilton's instructions. Hamilton got a strong whiff of coconuts

Closing his eyes, he took the time to just breathe. Coconuts always make him think bad things. But coming from Jefferson, currently wrapped in his warm arms, it made him feel sunshine. And that is beautiful.

“Alex? Are you okay?”

“Shhhh,” Hamilton shushes him again.

Hamilton lies still for some time. He's warm, Jefferson is staying perfectly still, it doesn't take long for him to fall asleep just as he was.

Hamilton wakes up groggy from his unplanned, four-hour nap. He finds that Jefferson had not managed to stay still. He is asleep, curly hair all over the place, some in Hamilton's face. And he had curled around Hamilton a little more. Plus, there is a blanket over them.

Why wake him? Hamilton was warm, they were both comfortable. Good enough. So they sleep there for the night.

Hamilton wakes next with one word. “Coffee.”

Jefferson's chest moves slightly as he laughs. Hamilton can tell since they were still together on the couch. “Mornin’ darlin’.”

Hamilton grumbles more.

“Can I move now?”

“Is it to get me coffee?”

“If I'm feeling kind.”

“I demand coffee for you dropping me last night.”

“I didn't drop you.”

“Close enough.”

Jefferson laughs again. “Alright, I'll make you coffee.”

“You may move.”

Jefferson carefully extracts himself from their position. “You snore, just so you know,” he says, walking to the coffee machine. Hamilton flips him off.

“It's to bless you with my voice even while we're sleeping.”

Jefferson chuckles, setting up and turning on the coffee machine before starting breakfast. “How'd you sleep.”

“Warmly. You're incredibly hot.” Jefferson raises a brow at him. “Oh, don't get me wrong,” Hamilton continues, “you're still an asshole. Just a hot asshole.”

“A hot asshole?” Jefferson asks, smirking slightly.

“Shut up and take the compliment.”

“Oh? That was a compliment? I think I missed it. Can you repeat it for me?”

Hamilton glares at him, pulling over his wheelchair and maneuvering himself into it, a long, haphazard process. He doesn't want to admit to himself he'd rather Jefferson help him. When he rolls over, Jefferson hands him a large coffee mug full of the most beautiful liquid in creation. Dark black coffee.

Jefferson pours himself another tall mug, only filling some of it with coffee and proceeding to dump various flavorful substances in. Hamilton can smell the sweetness from his chair

“That smells disgusting.”

“It smells delicious.”

“You've completely ruined it.”

“I've fixed it,” Jefferson hums.

“It's not even coffee colored,” Hamilton says.

“Still delicious.”

“Only a cunt like you drinks something so frivolous.”

Jefferson smiles sweetly over at him, taking a drink. Somehow, that is scarier than him having a retort. Food is dished up, served, and devoured. “You have a doctor's appointment today.”

“What? Already?”

“Once a week.”

“It's been three days.”

“And after that, it'll be seven days.”

“But I feel fine.”

“You're technically still supposed to be in the hospital. Would you like to go back and not do appointments at all?” Jefferson asks, getting consenting grumbles in response. “Excellent. Let's go change your bandages again and then we can go.”

Ah, yes, another session of soul searching for Hamilton. Embarrassingly revealing. It's easier after the first time though. It's practically a blur, and before Hamilton knows it, the doctor is inspecting all his injuries.

Good news, he gets to bend his leg. When it's been straight for three weeks, Hamilton can't help but be grateful. It's still in a cast, just a slightly different one that makes sitting in a wheelchair much easier.

By the time they get home again, it's late. Jefferson got them fast food on the way home. Which was delicious in the most unhealthy way and Hamilton is glad of it. There isn't much for them to do. They're both yawning, so the solution is simple. Jefferson helps Hamilton into bed and goes off to sleep in his own.

The next morning, Hamilton is unhappy to be woken up extra early. “What the fuck, Jefferson?” Hamilton complains, shielding his eyes from the light.

“Rise and shine you lazy bag of broken bones.”

“Sleep helps the healing process. Go away.”

Jefferson chuckles, picking him up anyway and setting him in his chair. “Come on, I've got breakfast prepared already.”

“This is highly unfair,” Hamilton mutters. “I'm going to start sleeping naked just so you can't do that.”

“Ew, I don't want you nasty naked ass all over my sheets.”

“Then you should let me sleep in.”

“Not an option!” Jefferson grins, taking a hold of the handles and zips Hamilton from the room and right up to the table where breakfast and coffee already waited for him.

“What's got you so full of energy today?” Hamilton asks.

“Can’t a man be happy to be alive?” Jefferson asks, joining him at the table.

Hamilton begins to attack his plate with a fork. “No, not really.”

“Who's got something shoved up their ass now? You stick in the mud.”

Hamilton cradles his coffee in his hand and drinks steadily. “At least I'll be ready for a good fuck later.” Jefferson just stares at him and Hamilton dares meet his gaze. That is a mistake. Not because of any expression Jefferson has, but because Hamilton takes that moment to randomly remember a certain picture. His body goes hot and he coughs awkwardly into his coffee. “Right. Well. What're we doing today?”

“Well, we're going to change all your bandages like normal,” Shit. “And then take a field trip.”

“A field trip?”

“Yep. You need some fresh air.”

“That actually sounds amazing,” Hamilton says, setting down his coffee.

“Wonderful,” Jefferson grins, shoveling down the rest of his food as Hamilton does the same. He can't say he's not well fed if anything else.

Hamilton opts to remove his shirt and sling all by himself. A little moment of victory in his healing progress. But Jefferson still helps with removing bandages, cleaning and applying medicinal cream wherever Hamilton couldn't reach. It is still something Hamilton found to be very revealing. He doesn't like people seeing him weak or injured. Especially Jefferson, the guy who was supposed to be pressing the advantage, not getting himself fired to care for him.

“Oh, by the way, I'm taking you to work tomorrow,” Jefferson says nonchalantly.

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

“Absolutely not. I can't show up in a wheelchair.”

“Would you rather I carried you everywhere?”

“No!”

Jefferson laughs. “You need to go back to work. Washington is about ready to break down my door and search my house himself looking for you.”

“Where I am is honestly none of his business.”

“It is when he's your boss and you've failed to call in for over three weeks.”

“Ah, but I've sent in my work now. He knows I'm alive.”

“Yeah? And what was his response email?”

“He demanded to know where I was and why I've been absent.”

“And you said?”

“Oh, I didn't reply.”

“I'm starting to think I'm not the only one that's going to be fired from this whole ordeal.”

Hamilton scoffs, “Washington would never fire me.”

“I would. In a heartbeat.”

“I'd bury you in a ditch.”

“How thoughtful.” Jefferson dries him off and hands him some new clothes, leaving the room so Hamilton could change in peace. When Jefferson returns to fetch him, he’s wearing what Hamilton decides is his favorite outfit on the man. That comfy looking sweater and dark jeans. It's all domestic to what he usually sees him in. Made him look less pompous.

“Ready?” Jefferson asks.

“Yep. Let's go.”

They venture into the garage where Jefferson loads up his wheelchair. Hamilton can't help but study Jefferson's own motorcycle. Brighter magenta than he remembers. He wishes they could take that instead, with his arms wrapped around Thom- nah, Hamilton would never ride something so gaudy.

When Hamilton was just sitting in Jefferson's car, going along for a ride, it seemed like things were completely normal. Well, minus the fact it was Jefferson's car. And Jefferson was driving. And Hamilton didn't mind being there.

Hamilton got into his chair by himself, since there were people around. Jefferson didn't even offer, apparently sensing it'd be crossing a line in public. Something Hamilton appreciates greatly.

They stay on the concrete paths of the park, Jefferson slowing his natural walking pace so Hamilton can keep up with only one hand to work with.

There's a problem.

They don't work very far from this park and lots of employees take their lunch breaks here. Jefferson's hair doesn't exactly make him easy to look over. Neither does a wheelchair.

“Jefferson!” He turns to find who called him, eyes landing on a trotting figure who came to a stop before them. The newcomer's eyes slid over to Hamilton. “Alex?”

“John?” Well fuck. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“What in God's name happened to you?” John asks. Hamilton didn't get a chance to reply before John's gaze went back to Jefferson. “What did you do to him?” his tone dripping venom.

“Me? Nothing,” Jefferson replies, raising his hands. “Why does everyone assume I'm the one responsible for this? Do I just seem like a psychopath to everyone or something?”

John didn't seem convinced. “You hate each other. It's an easy assumption.”

“Hate is a strong word,” Jefferson says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. His hips position slightly forward unconsciously. The posture seemed relaxed, but Hamilton couldn't help but feel like it was posturing. Like animals do when trying to determine who's the alpha male. Huh. Weird.

Hamilton grabs John's wrist to catch his attention. “Relax, Jacky, he's telling the truth. This was an elk’s f-” Hamilton glances at Jefferson. “-er, my fault.” Jefferson smiles ever so slightly.

John looks between them, not backing down. “Even so, he's kidnapped you.”

Jefferson snorts. “Hardly,” he drawls.

“You've both been gone from the office for over three weeks. Without a word. It's an easy assumption. An easier one is that you murdered him,” John says, glaring at Jefferson and subtly maneuvering himself between him and Hamilton.

“Do I really seem like such an awful guy?” Jefferson asks.

“Yes,” John answers for him. He takes a hold of the handles for Hamilton's chair. “Come on, let's take you home. Washington is about to explode.”

“Don't touch my chair, John,” Hamilton says tersely. “Just because it has handles, doesn't mean it's your right to push me around.”

John's hands instantly retracted and neither of them are in the right position to see Jefferson's smug grin. “Sorry, I didn't know. You want to stay here? But you hate him.”

“I can't go back to work yet,” Hamilton says. “But I will be back. Jefferson just happened to run into me a couple minutes ago. That's all.”

John looks suspiciously between them. “Alright. But you should've at least texted me, I'm your friend. I would've been there to help you.”

“Sorry, broke my phone. I think lunch break is over, you should get back to work before you get in trouble.”

John looks slightly hurt from the obvious dismissal. He nods, “I'll tell Washington that you’re with Jefferson.”

“No, don't tell him anything.”

“What? He's worried sick.”

“I've got it under control.”

“Fine,” John huffs, jamming his hands into his pockets and walking away.

Jefferson reclaims his spot next to Hamilton. “Well then. Shall we continue our journey? Or would you rather go home?”

“Let's just go home.”

Jefferson nods and falls into step next to him. Hamilton gives up wheeling himself after ten feet, not really in the mood anymore. Jefferson picks up the silent request and takes over. Hamilton can't help but feel a little grateful. How Jefferson seemed to understand all his silent signals was beyond him.

Hamilton honestly feels a little bad. John is his best friend. But the fact that he assumes so easily that Hamilton couldn't defend or care for himself irritates him. Even though that's not what really happened. It's what Hamilton likes to think happened.


	12. Distractions

His mind won't stop replaying how John and Jefferson sized each other up, positioning to play the game of dominance. Even several days after the encounter. 

Jefferson has decided they'd better wait a few more days before dropping into work to let everything settle again. Hamilton whole heartily agrees.

By now, Hamilton is completely used to their daily ritual, but is chafing under the constraints of being unable to walk. He's only nearly a month into recovery and is uncertain if he can take any more of this nonsense. 

“Earth to Hamilton, come in Hamilton. Are you there?”

Hamilton snaps from his thoughts and focuses his gaze back onto Jefferson. “Yeah, yeah, 'course. What were we talking about?”

“And you think you're paying attention,” Jefferson chuckles. 

“Hey, fuck off. You're just so dull I can't help but let my mind wander.” Hamilton resigned himself a couple days ago to the fact that Jefferson isn't nearly as annoying as he wanted him to be. Especially when he wore those fucking glasses. Ain't that a bitch?

“I thought you like my reading?” Jefferson asks, looking at Hamilton over the top of his frames. 

“Wait, when did we start reading?”

“How long have you been in your head?”

“How long ago was dinner?”

Jefferson sighs and closes the book. “No sense in my continuing since you've missed two chapters. What's on your mind?”

Hamilton waves it off. “Nothing, just thinking.”

“It's not nothing if it's held your attention for a couple hours.”

“It really is nothing. I just kept jumping topics is all,” Hamilton explains.

“I find myself not believing you.”

“Why?”

“Because you've been staring at me the entire time.”

Hamilton blinks. Shit. He had been, hadn't he? How is he supposed to explain that? “I figured if I stared at you long enough, you'd get uncomfortable. That always brings me pleasure.”

Jefferson smirks. “Oh? Because you seemed to be looking at me with a very different expression.”

“What kind of expression?” Hamilton asks, somehow keeping the nervousness from his voice. Only he knows what he was thinking. Jefferson's bluffing.

“You know exactly what expression,” Jefferson drawls lowly.

Shivers crawl up Hamilton's spine. Jefferson must've noticed because a smirk slowly spreads across his face. Was it just Hamilton or is Jefferson closer than usual?

Just Hamilton. 

Hamilton clears his throat, meeting Jefferson's gaze brazenly. “Are you going to read, because if you're not, you have no purpose in my room.”

“This is my house.”

“But it's my room. Temporarily. So get out.”

Jefferson chuckles, slipping off the bed and setting the book on the nightstand. “Goodnight,” he hums, closing the door behind him. 

Hamilton lets out a breath. Jefferson challenging him always seemed to have a way of putting him on edge. He pulls the blankets higher and tries his best to clear his mind to sleep.

It doesn't work for quite a while.


	13. Breaking and Entering

“Work today!” Thomas beams happily, setting the plate down in front of Hamilton. 

“I don't want everyone in the office to see me in this state,” Hamilton grumbles.

“I was thinking if Washington sees you like this, he'll let you off the hook. And maybe me as well. I was in the middle of a project and I'd hate all that work to go to waste.”

“You're trying to use my condition to your advantage?” Hamilton asks, stabbing his fork into his breakfast. “That's such an asshole move. One that I actually would do myself. If it wasn't me currently stuck in a chair with wheels.”

“Want me to paint flames on it?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Hamilton says, stuffing food into his mouth.

“That'd take too much time. Wouldn't want to late, now would we?”

“You have keys right? Let's show up in the middle of the night and let everyone find us in the morning.”

“Sleeping in Washington's office?” Thomas grins.

And that's how they found themselves breaking into their work building at three am. Thomas lets them in through the front door with his key, stepping forward and punching in the code to the alarm system in. Perks of being a founder of the company. 

Still doesn't mean the board can't fire him, however.

Hamilton rolls into the darkened building, only a few lights are on, giving it a ghostly feel. Like walking into a school after dark and the halls are abandoned and every sound one makes echoes.

Thomas closes the door and navigates the halls from memory and the dim lighting. Buildings like this never turned off all the lights, even at three am. Soon enough, the elevator was carrying them through the several stories until it dings and the door slide open.

The whole building gave off a feel like making any noise is taboo or would result in an untimely death. So there is no conversation between them, even if Hamilton looks to Thomas every now and then, unable to help but find that his tall frame looked terrifying in such menacing lighting. It only brought him comfort though, knowing that if a crazed person were to jump from the shadows, or even the security guard that's supposed to be around somewhere, Thomas would probably be intimidating enough to make them back off.

Thomas’ hand grasps the doorknob to Washington's office, rattling it. “Shit. It's locked.”

“Well fuck,” Hamilton whispers. “If I had my other hand…” his gaze studied Thomas’ long, slender fingers. “Go find some paper clips.”

Thomas raises a brow at him but goes off on his mission. “Don't tell me you know how to pick locks,” Thomas says once he's returned, handing the requested items to Hamilton. 

He bends them into shape with the help from his teeth, deciding not to answer that. One paperclip is carefully slid into the lock, Hamilton concentrating on positioning it just right. “Alright, hold that perfectly still,” he instructs Thomas. Once he's done so, Hamilton reshapes the second one and slides it in as well, raking it across the inner workings and setting to work.

After several swears, the lock finally turns and Hamilton cheers quietly, rolling inside the office. It's not as dark as he expected it to be. The blinds are open enough to let in the city lights. And with the addition of Washington’s bright screen saver for his computer, it's enough to see the layout rather well. 

“He rearranged,” Hamilton hums. “The desk used to be over there.”

“It seems you're right,” Thomas says, closing and relocking the door behind them. Hamilton manages out of his chair and onto the couch that sits against the wall, getting as comfortable as possible. 

Thomas moves his chair out of the way and looks around, deciding where he wanted to lie down. Floor? On top of the desk was probably too much. Maybe the coffee table.

“I forgot how cold this fucking building is,” Hamilton grumbles. “Stupid fucking cold.”

“I don't see any blankets anywhere,” Thomas says, looking around for one. “There aren't even any pillows. Drab. A couch and no throw pillows, who does that?”

“Washington, apparently,” Hamilton says. “Hey, fucking hot asshole, get over here and be my heater.”

Thomas chuckles and walks over. “If you just want me to sleep with you, all you have to do is ask,” he says, lying on the couch and pulling Hamilton on top of him and warming him with his body.

“Don't be fucking absurd,” Hamilton says, grateful Thomas can't see his face. “You're just warm and I hate the fucking cold.”

“Ah, and I'm the only option, I see,” Thomas laughs quietly.

“Remind me to tell Washington to fire the security guard. They fucking suck.”

Another soft chuckle. “Sure thing. Now go to sleep.”

“Easier said than done. I can't fall asleep easily.”

“Give it a shot.”

Two seconds later and Hamilton is snoring softly.


	14. Not, in Fact, a Missing Person

Thomas woke first. How does Hamilton know? Several reasons. One, he's cold because Thomas ditched him, the asshole. Two, he's having a conversation.

“I found Alexander,” Thomas says once the door opens, framing Washington. Thomas has his back to him, looking out the large windows over the city and the morning light steadily chases away shadows.

Washington goes through a whole bunch of reactions. His first instinct is to lay into Thomas for his disappearance, but the mention of Hamilton completely overrides that.

“Where?” he demands. A simple nod of the head from Thomas has Washington looking at his couch where Hamilton lies sleeping, wheelchair carefully tucked away but still in plain view. Cast over his leg and arm. Said arm held in place by a sling over his chest. His clothes are rumbled from sleeping on the couch. Some bruises are still barely visible, peeking out from under the edges of cloth.

Hamilton, by this point, decides it's best to continue being asleep, even though he's totally eavesdropping like the bastard that he is.

“What happened to him?” Washington asks, his voice displaying all and none of his emotion at the same time. “And where have you been? It's been a month.”

“Ah,” Thomas says, turning to face him and raising a finger. “Well, you see, that's a bit complicated. I really think that Hamilton should be the current focus considering his condition.”

“I'm not oblivious, Mr. Jefferson,” Washington says, walking to his desk to set his briefcase down. Letting Hamilton sleep seems to be the priority for both of them, seeing as their voices remain quiet. “You and he go missing at the exact same time, even if you claim is a vacation. Which we both know it isn't since it was originally a fake sick day. I get work sent in electronically at the same time. You show up here at the same time. John's been muttering about you both for a week now. James has been here, but somehow manages to avoid everyone to where the only proof that he's been here is the records he's clocked in and the work that's been done, meaning he's avoiding being questioned. I'm tired of whatever game you're trying to play. Tell me what's going on.”

Thomas coughs awkwardly. “I would, sir, but that's really only for Hamilton to tell.”

“Give me the basics.”

“Hamilton's injured.”

“Yes, I can see that. Continue.”

“I brought him here.”

“I can also see that.”

Thomas sighs. “Just let him explain when he wakes up. It's really not my place.”

“It's just as much your place since you seem to be just as involved.”

“I refuse to say any more without his consent.”

“I suppose I can respect that,” Washington says, taking a seat at his desk and waking up his computer. “You're fired by the way. Finish up whatever work you can today, then clear out your office. You're dismissed.”

“Of course, sir. I expected as much. Just don't wake him. He needs the rest.” Thomas says, his long strides carrying him out of the room.

Hamilton wants more than anything to jump to his defense, but he's too busy making a pro and cons list in his head. In the end, he decides whether Thomas is fired or not, it's best to stay still and sleep a little longer and give Washington time to cool his temper.

He’s fully expecting to just lie there and listen to Washington work, but after nearly another half an hour, his body drags him back asleep.


	15. Not One for Favoritism

Hamilton wakes up with a blanket draped over his body and the lower level of light that comes with the coming evening. Did he really sleep through the whole day? Where was Thomas?

Hamilton groans softly, turning his head and looking over at the desk where he gets to witness Washington dropping a pen from his clasped hands that are holding up his head. Hamilton couldn't help be proud of managing to startle Washington, an impossible feat for sure.

“Alexander,” he said, rising from his chair walking quickly over. “How're you feeling?”

“You ask that like I'm injured- oh wait. Ha.”

“This is a serious matter.”

“Probably why I respond with witty sarcasm,” Hamilton replies.

Washington sighs and sits on the coffee table, resting his head against his steepled fingers. “Tell me what happened and why I never got a call.”

“Ah, well, you see, that's complicated.”

“So I've been told. Tell me.”

“Am I allowed to lie? Because that seems like a preferred alternative.”

“Absolutely not. I want the truth. The complete truth.”

“Alright, here it goes.” Hamilton takes a deep breath and says it all in a rush, not a single pause for breath. “I got kidnapped by the mafia and could manage a single message which happened to be to Thomas who then went on super spy mode to save my ass and I owe him my life and we just got back.”

Washington stares at him while he sucks down more air. He's not quite sure whether to believe him or not. He did say no lying after all, and he trusts Hamilton. “If this has to do with the mafia, we need to contact the CIA or the FBI or something.”

Hamilton holds his gaze in complete seriousness for ten long seconds before breaking into a fit of laughter that quickly turns into groaning pain as he clutches his ribs. “God, I can't believe you swallowed that,” he rasps, trying to breathe again.

Washington is not amused.

After that, Hamilton explains everything. In almost complete honesty. A few parts are stretched a bit or slightly modified to make himself look better. Can you really blame him?

“And as much as I want Thomas to be out of this building forever, I honestly owe him, so if you could give him back his job, that would be great,” Hamilton finishes.

Washington stares at him for a full minute. “Why did you lie to me in the first place?” he finally asks.

“Technically,” Hamilton says. “That was Thomas.”

“And you expect me to give him his job back?”

Hamilton sighs. “It may have been under my influence.”

“And that changes things how, exactly?” Washington asks. “He still lied to me. More than once. Each time I asked where you were. I filed to the police. If either of you just told me in the first place, this wouldn't be a problem. But you've both been gone a month. I fired Mr. Jefferson. For good reason. And I can't show favoritism.”

“What are you saying?” Hamilton asks.

“You're fired.

“Well shit.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Uh huh. Right. Um, no. Fuck you. I'm not your employee anymore and I'm certainly not your son. I'll say whatever shit I want to.”

Washington stands and walks back to his desk. “Show yourself out. Go home.”

Hamilton drags himself into a sitting position, pulling over his chair and manages to get himself situated, taking extreme pleasure in how miserable and guilty it made Washington look. Hamilton proceeds to roll out the door and in search of Thomas. He knows exactly where he'd be.

He jams the elevator button, putting a little too much of his pent-up aggression into it. One floor down and he's wheeling past all the stares of people as he makes his way to the Thomas’ office. Hamilton doesn't bother to knock, turning the handle and shoving the door open, entering and slamming it behind him.

Thomas lifts his head from where it had been resting in his hands. “Ah, Hamilton,” he says. “I see you still haven't learned to knock.”

Hamilton glares, rolling over to him, ranting. “He's a fucking asshole. The dick. Sure, he means well for the company but it's gonna fucking plummet without us. Who does he think he is? I keep this company running just as much as he does. What right does he have?” Jefferson watches in bewilderment as Hamilton grabs his hand and tried pulling him from the chair at his desk. “Come on, Thomas, we're leaving.”

Thomas must have pieced together from the rant that Hamilton got fired too because he doesn't question the 'we.’ “I have to finish today's work,” he says, watching Hamilton, his chair only rolling toward Hamilton slightly from the pull.

“You got fired Thomas,” Hamilton says. “Fuck him. Fuck it all. You don't owe him shit. We're going. Now. Grab your shit and let's go.”

“What's gotten into you?”

“Everything's gotten into me,” Hamilton snaps. “I'm in a fucking chair. With wheels. I have to rely on people. I just lost my job over a courtesy detail. I got you fired. I have a hospital bill to pay somehow. And other fucking bills and goddamnit I need this job”

Thomas does something Hamilton doesn't expect. He pulls Hamilton from his chair into his own and hugs him tightly to his chest. Hamilton, in his current state, doesn't really notice that he's careful of his injuries, just clutching to his shirt with a single hand, burying his face into the fabric of his clothes. It takes all his willpower not let anything more out than shuddering breaths. Instead, he holds onto the notion that Thomas is wearing that sweater he loves so much again today. The fabric is softer than it looks and is heaven against his skin.

Slowly, his shuddering breaths calm until he's breathing in the slight smell of coconuts. Hamilton still can't explain why it's soothing when it comes from Jefferson.

His field of awareness expands as he calms. Thomas has his arms wrapped securely around him, a thumb rubbing soothing circles into his spine. When Thomas moved them from the office chair to his couch, surrounding them in throw pillows, is beyond him. Hamilton takes in another slow breath. The last thing he wants to do is remove his face from where it's hidden, because then he'll have to face the embarrassment that comes right after.

“You alright now?” Thomas asks quietly.

Hamilton sighs and picks up his head. “Take me home.”

“Of course, darlin,” Thomas says, doing just that.


	16. Therapeutic Cooking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was looking through these chapters and it looks like I may have published 14 and 15 out of order? It's fixed now, so make sure you read them in the right order. Wouldn't want y'all confused.

Thomas completely foregoes the chair when taking Hamilton inside, just carrying him instead. In most situations, this would just make Hamilton feel worse, being lugged around like a sack of potatoes. But Thomas makes it feel completely different. As if he enjoyed it. Or that Hamilton was too important to even let his shoes be dirtied by the ground. That's what really makes the difference.

When they finally enter the house, Hamilton expects to be dropped on the couch again where he’d have to spend the rest of the day, watching everyone else move. But no, Thomas sets him on the counter in the kitchen.

“You're helping me cook dinner tonight,” he hums.

“I'm what?”

“You heard me.”

“I can't exactly flaunt about the kitchen like you do,” Hamilton mutters.

“Flaunt?” Thomas laughs. “You don't need to. The best part of cooking is when it's actually cooking on the stove,” Thomas says, handing him a knife and a cutting board. “And you happen to be in the optimal spot to help with both the cooking and the preparations,” he hums.

Hamilton eyes the knife and the food Thomas washes and places next to him for cutting. He grabs another knife and cutting board and joins in right next to him. It doesn't take long for Hamilton to help, smiling slightly at the productivity and actually being useful for once.

The sound of knives chopping against the cutting board seems somehow therapeutic. “I think I understand why you like cooking so much,” Hamilton says.

“Who said I like cooking?” Thomas asks, raising a brow and tilting his head up slightly from his cutting board to look at Hamilton. Good thing he isn't wearing any glasses right now, shit.

“Please, it's written all over your face. In the bounce of your step, and in the way you hum happily the entire time.”

“I was humming?”

“You're always humming when you cook.”

Thomas smiles slightly. “I hadn't realized.”

“Even your hair gets bouncier.”

“My hair?” Thomas laughs.

“Yes, your hair. It's very attuned to your mood.”

Thomas picks up a board of chopped food and rests the end against the hot pan as Hamilton scrapes it all in with a knife. The most satisfying sizzle fills the air and a spoon appears in Thomas’ hand from nowhere. He grins up at Hamilton, “Think you can manage to stir a pan, gimpy?” Thomas asks, holding the spoon up in front of Hamilton.

It's ripped from his grasp and being wielded threateningly. “I will shove this up your ass, you shithead.”

A grin splits his face. “Sorry, I've already got one spoon up my ass.”

“I'll make it work,” Hamilton says, stabbing the spoon into the pan and stirring vigorously. Thomas clicks his tongue disapprovingly, watching Hamilton stir.

“You don't need to be so brute with it,” he hums, his soft hand settling over Hamilton's on the handle and slowing his motions. Thomas’ gaze is fixed on the food, guiding Hamilton's hand through slow, controlled motions to stir the food gently and not spill any over the sides of the pan.

Hamilton's face may be turned toward the food, but his eyes rested on Thomas’ face. His features matched the soft touch on his hand. Warm, gentle, caring. The fluff of his hair smooths out the angles of his face. His eyes aren't as dark as Hamilton thought them to be. Closer to melted chocolate. The way Thomas’ lips are slightly turned up into a smile while humming quietly makes the whole scene seem like a dream stretching on forever.

Thomas’ long-lashed eyes flick over and meet Hamilton's, holding his gaze. His smile widens a bit. Damn contagious personality, making Hamilton smile in return. The spoon is pulled from the pan, “There,” Thomas says lowly. “We don't want to over stir, now do we?” His touch lingers on Hamilton's hand for a few seconds more than necessary before it disappears. “Next time, I'll teach you to mince, because that attempt was atrocious.”

“Hey you asshole, my mincing was perfect,” Hamilton protests.

Thomas throws his head back and laughs. “Mincing? You were mushing.”

Hamilton scowls back into Thomas’ grinning face. “I never learned to cook,” he grumbles nearly inaudibly.

A hand splays against Thomas’ chest in dramatic shock. “Oh my God, really? No one?”

“Don't make such a big deal about it,” Hamilton grumbles, looking away in embarrassment.

Thomas is grinning proudly. “No, this is good.”

“Good?”

“Definitely. I can teach you everything I know. Starting with mincing. That way, I know you learned from someone who knows what they're doing.”

“Oh good, can you point me to someone who does? See, I'm currently staying with a complete idiot who doesn't know shit.”

Thomas scoffs, opening up a cupboard and retrieving spices. “I'll have you make your own food and then we'll see who doesn't know shit. Here, a pinch of all of these, and a couple drops of that,” he instructs, going back to spice retrieving in the cupboard.

When he finally reemerges with the one very specific spice in mind, he looks down to check Hamilton's progress. Thomas shrieks. “I said a couple drops! Not half the bottle!”

“It is not half the bottle,” Hamilton replies.

“Okay! Buts it's still like 100x more than necessary!” Thomas has taken up the spoon and is trying to scoop it out but his efforts are fruitless, because underneath is several piles of spices and he just hangs his head in defeat.

Hamilton is laughing, taking the spoon and stirring it all together. His fingers slip the last spice from Thomas' hand and add too much of that too. “Mm, smells delicious.”

“I'd beg to differ,” Thomas mumbles, placing all the spices back where they belong. “That's going to be spicy as fuck now.”

“Perfect.’

Thomas sighs and softly shakes his head, curls bouncing. Underneath it all, he's smiling. “You're impossible.”

“I'm a culinary genius, is what I am,” Hamilton says, licking the spoon. Thomas snatches the spoon away and thunks it against his forehead.

“Eat your nasty ass food you heathen.”

Thom-

-Dinner! Dinner is delightful.


	17. From Wheels to Pegs

“Alright, Mr. Hamilton, that's all for today, you both can go home now,” the doctor says with that kindly smile.

“Thanks doc,” Hamilton grins, rolling both his shoulders. He grins over at Thomas, holding up his arm proudly. It's now out of a sling and just in a brace. One that can be taken off for showers and shit. Meaning he now has two hands again.

Thomas grins back, just as happy with his recovery. “Go ahead and go the car, I'll meet you there,” he hums. Hamilton nods and takes off down the hallway. Wheelchairs are much easier to use with two hands. Thomas isn't long behind. By the time he catches up, Hamilton is already in the passenger seat, tapping both his hands against his thighs impatiently.

Getting the approval to use his arm again has him flooding with energy. He hears Thomas close the trunk after stowing away his folded up chair. The moment the driver door opens, Hamilton's already chattering away. Thomas just chuckles in amusement, letting Hamilton ramble to his heart's content. Mostly because there was no space for him to say anything back.

Hamilton finally tapers off, looking out the window and watching the city pass by as Thomas drives them home. “Have a good day?” Thomas asks, now that there's room for two people in the conversation.

Hamilton hums. “It was great. I got an arm back,” he says, holding it out proudly.

Thomas smiles over at him. “I suppose that means you don't need my help in the shower anymore.”

“That's right!” Hamilton grins. “Now if only I could just walk, everything would be great.”

“Give yourself time,” Thomas chuckles.

“Easy for you to say. You've never been deprived of something you love for so long.”

“Ah, I've broken my wrist multiple times. Couldn't play my violin for weeks,” Thomas sighs sadly at the memory.

“My heart weeps for you,” Hamilton rolls his eyes. “You haven't played in weeks anyway. I would know because I still have my eardrums. I'd never be able to drown out such incessant screeching.”

“Excuse you,” Thomas says. “My playing is the most beautiful sound you'll ever hear.”

“Doubtful,” Hamilton hums. “You know what's a beautiful sound? Opening a paycheck.”

“You're ridiculous. I'll have to fix that outlook.”

“How, taking me to an orchestra? Yawn.”

Thomas chuckles. “No. That's too much for a simpleton like you.”

“Simpleton! Excuse you! I'm just a complex and extravagant as you are.”

“I think loud, flashy, and hot-headed are the words you're looking for.”

Hamilton scoffs but doesn't bother with a reply as they pull up to the house and park. Hamilton opens his door and waits for Thomas to bring him his stupid ass chair. Thomas appears in his line of sight again, leaning something carefully against the side of the car, just out of view, before looking at Hamilton with a smile.

When he stretched out his hand for Hamilton to take, he gets a questioning look instead. “What? I need my chair. I don't want to be carried.”

Thomas chuckles, his offered hand remaining. “Trust me.”

Another suspicious look and Hamilton takes the hand, using its support to pull himself from the car,  standing on his good leg. “Great. Now what?”

Thomas grins. “Now you walk.”

“I what?”

Thomas picks up a set of crutches and hands them to him, stepping into his side to support his weight. There's not even a thought of consideration as Hamilton leans against Thomas, taking the crutches like they were the most beautiful thing in existence. A grin slowly forms on his face as he tucked them under his arms.

Thomas is smiling brightly, stepping away once Hamilton was self-supporting, but leaving a hand on his shoulder just in case. “Good?” Thomas asks.

“Wonderful,” Hamilton grins up at Thomas, getting used to the new feeling.

“Fantastic.” Thomas removes his hand, leaving Hamilton to make his way up to the door while he closed the trunk and the car door, following after him to let him in with a key.

Hamilton is teetering back and forth on either crutch with excitement. “This is great. I don't have to sit all the time anymore,” he beams.

Thomas swings the door open, smiling. “I'm glad you're having a good time.”

“I'm having a great time! I can walk! Or is hopping a more accurate term? Swinging forward? I don't fucking care, I'm upright.”

Thomas laughs. “Good, you can start helping around the house now then. Clean up your own messes.” He drops his keys into a bowl and shuts the door behind them.

“Nonsense. I don't leave messes. I'm self-sufficient like that.”

“Oh? Really? I distinctly recall doing all your dishes while your lazy ass watched movies on the couch.”

“I repaid you with quality conversation.”

“You call me an asshole every other word.”

“Like I said. Quality.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, chuckling. “Welcome home, gimpy.”

“It won't be long before you can't call me that anymore.”

“What do you mean? You'll always be gimpy to me now.”

“Asshole.”

“Gimpy bastard.”


	18. Mincing Pro

Hamilton is easy to hear coming, to say the least, thumping down the hallway. He is restless, with nothing to do other than watch movies and thump around the house looking for something to do. Thomas keeps insisting that they would go and do something once Hamilton is healed completely. But that was still ages away. He wanted something to do _now._

So he was pacing back and forth, his mind a torrent of thoughts. Not even sticking to a topic. It’s like trying to find which way town is in the middle of the Sahara Desert during a record-breaking sandstorm. Surviving until the end seemed impossible enough, let alone walking in the right direction.

Maybe if he paces enough, he'll exhaust himself and sleep for the next month.

Hamilton pivots on one crutch, turning himself around to pace the other way but instead paces right into another body.

Arms wrapped around his waist to keep him from falling, holding him upright against the toned chest. A fact Hamilton finds himself noticing in that moment for absolutely no reason.

“Careful,” Thomas murmured. “You're going to hurt yourself again. We wouldn't want that, now would we?”

Hamilton doesn't pull away, just looking up and meeting his gaze. He huffs. “Give me something to do and I wouldn't have to pace.” Hamilton tries not to notice how he's still against Thomas’ warm body.

“Gladly,” he says, stepping away, now sure Hamilton has his balance. “Come on.”

Curious, Hamilton follows.

Hamilton could've guessed. Thomas takes him to the kitchen where today's dinner is spread out on the counter, ready to be chopped, stirred, or whatever else was necessary to make it into the beautiful dishes Thomas always lays out at dinner time. “Cooking,” Thomas says proudly, setting his hands on his hips, slightly cocked out to the side.

“You want me to cook?” Hamilton asks, entering behind him. “I thought we already learned not to let me anywhere near spices.”

“Spices, maybe,” Thomas hummed. “But I promised I'd show you how to mince, and show you I shall.”

At this point, Hamilton was willing to do anything to get his mind occupied. He shrugs, “Alright, how do we start?”

“First, wash your hands.”

“Shocker.”

After they both had clean hands, Thomas places Hamilton in front of the counter, standing immediately to his left. Cutting boards were placed in front of them both. “Careful, I keep my knives extremely sharp. Better for cooking.”

Hamilton accepts the offered knife and watches as Thomas demonstrates exactly how to start mincing. His crutches are set off to the side, standing on one leg and leaning slightly against Thomas to make cutting things easier.

At first, it was easy. Cut off the ends, gut ugly parts out, and then hack everything to pieces.

Evidently, that's wrong. Seeing as Thomas laughs at him. His long fingers settle over Hamilton's, standing behind him, just close enough for them to be touching, as he repositions the knife in Hamilton's hand, guiding him through the motions with his arms around his body.

Hamilton is flustered. Whether it's from the frustration of cutting things or Thomas up against him is entirely unknown.

“Go slowly at first,” Thomas says quietly in his ear. “You don't need to mince quickly. Most important is doing it correctly rather than speed.”

“Isn't speed essential? Chefs on TV always chop things insanely fast hell, you mince insanely fast.”

Thomas chuckles. “That just comes from practice.”

“I don't know how to go slow,” Hamilton replies.

“I'll show you,” Thomas chuckles, his warm hands still covering Hamilton's and guiding him through the easy motions. Soon enough, Hamilton had it down and was picking up pace.

“I'm a mincing pro,” he beams.

Thomas laughs. “Great job.” His hands had abandoned Hamilton's in favor of his waist, holding him steady and acting in place of his crutches which had been temporarily abandoned.

After everything that needed to be minced was minced, Thomas set it off to the side in a bowl. “Great, now we slice mushrooms.”

“Same thing right?”

Thomas laughs, finding the whole situation funny. “No, much bigger pieces.”

“Cooking terms,” Hamilton grumbles.

Mushrooms are harder to cut than they look, just because they have a tendency to crumble apart, the fungus fuckers. Chicken is much easier. There's no slicing, it's just chopped into chunks until it looks good. That is very agreeable to Hamilton.

Thomas runs him through the basics of keeping meats and produce separate and all that shit. Hamilton may or may not have just blanked that out.  But soon enough, he's sauteeing chicken and all the other shit in a pan while some noodles boil and Thomas is off making some sauce or something from scratch.

Hamilton wishes that he'd come help Hamilton stir. There was no reason for it, Hamilton stirs just fine. He just wants him close again. Thomas’ proximity has become soothing, in a way. When that came to be, Hamilton isn't entirely sure.

Hamilton shakes his head, bringing himself back. “Thomas, how much longer do you think before I get out of this cast?”

“Another month, at least, why? Anxious to get out of here?”

“Anxious to be able to do shit again.”

Thomas pats his shoulder in passing. “Don't worry. You'll heal and then you can frolic through all the flower groves you wish.”

“Excuse me, I do not frolic. Especially through flower groves.”

“Just me then?” Thomas grins crookedly over at him.

Hamilton rolls his eyes and returns to the food he's cooking. Before he knows it, Thomas prods his side, below his ribs because he's thoughtful like that, to get him to move out of the way and to the table. That fact that Hamilton knows that he helped make the meal makes it taste so much better.


	19. Taxes and Bills

Two am. Hamilton knows he's the only one awake. Thomas likes to be in bed early and up early. A routine that is much healthier for both the body and one's mental state, go figure. It's also a routine Hamilton's never managed himself.

Hence why he's the only one awake in the house at two am with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling. If only he had an audiobook to listen to.

The house is quiet. Surely he could hear a needle drop. But it's a nice quiet. A quiet he's gotten used to since he started sleeping here. No noise. It was a tranquil neighborhood.

Which is why Hamilton's nerves went on alert when he heard a soft rustling from somewhere in the house. What could it be? Is Thomas awake? Or is someone currently robbing them?

Now, Hamilton is never one to shy away from a fight, injured or no. So he slips out of bed, grabbing his crutches and making his way out of his room as quietly as possible. He supposes that if he encounters a murderer he can either beat them with a crutch or die trying. Either way, the guy would be scared off and Thomas could continue living in relative peace. Maybe with or without Hamilton haunting his ass.

A soft glow leaks out from under a door down the hallway. This level of the house is carpeted so his movements are muffled. The door isn't quite fully closed and by this point, Hamilton knows it to be Thomas pulling a late night. Why else would the light come from his bedroom?

The door creaks softly as Hamilton pushes it open. “I see you still haven't learned to knock,” Thomas yawns softly. Those thick-rimmed glasses are perched on his nose he overlooks paperwork in the yellowish light of his desk lamp.

Why Thomas has a desk in his room and one in his office, Hamilton doesn't know. Nor does he bother finding out.

“What are you doing up so late?” Hamilton asks.

“Taxes,” Thomas answers with a sigh, setting a piece of paper down. He looks over to Hamilton. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, I just was investigating late night noises. Need help? I'm great with taxes.”

Jefferson snorts softly, rubbing at the crease between his brows. “Yeah, I bet you are. No, I think I've got this under moderate control.”

“Yeah, certainly looks that way,” Hamilton laughs slightly, looking about at the papers spread about everywhere. “Come on, it's really not that hard. Check a couple boxes, choose some percentages, sign some lines. Write a few numbers. Bam. Nothing to it.”

Thomas chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Sure, maybe when you don't own a corporation.”

“Ah. Well. Hire a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer.”

“A real lawyer.”

“Ouch,” Thomas grins crookedly. Hamilton snickers, moving across the room to look over Thomas’ spread of papers.

“Sucks to be you,” Hamilton says, picking up a piece and studying it before replacing it. “Looks a lot like the shit I dealt with at work. You never told me you were involved in businesses outside of ours.”

Thomas smiles, watching Hamilton. “I was planning on selling it.”

“What? That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard,” Hamilton says, leaning his weight forward onto his crutches, looking at the income numbers Thomas was raking in.

“Why's that?”

“You're at the top. Rich, comfortable, why throw it away? The entire notion of giving it all up is ridiculous and makes me sick.”

Thomas’ chair leans back more as his legs cross and his arms fold. A small, knowing smirk crosses his face. “Is that so?”

“It is. I mean, you spend your entire life clawing your way to the top. You're finally there and you're just gonna throw it away? What for?”

Thomas shrugs. “Maybe I'm just bored.”

“Bored?” Hamilton scoffs. “Fine. Give it to me. I'll run it properly.”

“Oh hell no. You're not getting your filthy, greedy, money-minded hands anywhere near my company.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don't give a shit who you snuff in the face to get what you want.”

“Bah,” Hamilton waves it off. “Either give it to me, or fucking keep it. Don't throw everything away.”

“There's more to life than money and position, Hamilton.”

“Yeah, the illusion that there's something more to make it worthwhile. When really it's just a load of shit to keep people working.”

Thomas sighs and shakes his head. “I'm selling it and not to you. You can't afford to buy it anyway. I don't need it anymore.”

“How could you _not_ need it?”

“It's not necessary for my happiness. I've always been more of a stay at home guy anyway. Less work, more fun.”

“You need money for fun. And you have to work to get money.”

“I have money. Consider it an early retirement.”

Hamilton snorts. “There's no such thing.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I just think being there for the ones you love is more important.”

“The ones you love should be able to understand you have work to get done.”

Thomas turns back to his papers. “Someday, I think, you'll learn that is not the case. And when you do, I have a feeling you'll have lost it before you could enjoy it. You seem like the type that doesn't know what he has until it's gone.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “Nonsense. I know everything I have. I keep careful tabs on it.”

Thomas chuckles. “Of course you do.” Hamilton feels as though Thomas isn't saying what he's thinking. Evidently, he doesn't think Hamilton understands what he's trying to say.

His eyes land on a bill, fixing on the amount. “Holy shit, what could you possibly have spent so much money on?” Hamilton asks, reaching forward and picking it up to examine it closer.

“Nothing,” Thomas says, plucking it from his hands before he could find where it came from.

“Hey! I was reading that.”

“It's illegal to read other people's mail.”

“It's illegal to open other people's mail. It's not my fault you leave it out for me to find.”

Thomas stuffs it under other paperwork. “It's literally on my desk, while I'm working, in my room. That's not leaving it around for nosy bastards like you.”

“You're hiding something,” Hamilton's eyes narrow.

“I'm doing my taxes is all,” Thomas says. “In fact, I think I'm done for the night. You should go to bed as well .”

“I was in bed. Couldn't sleep. Now I'm here.”

Thomas pushes away from his desk after filling away all the papers into a locked drawer and stretches, popping his back with a groan. Damn it. Why's he got to be so careful with his documents? It's not like anyone was going to read them. Except maybe Hamilton. He'll just pick the lock later.

“Need me to read you a chapter?” he asks.

“That would be amazing.”

“Well too damn bad.”

“Fuck you too.”

Thomas crawls into his bed and relaxes between the sheets. “You going to just stand there staring at me?”

“I've nothing better to do. Some jackass won't read to me.”

“I'm tired. You're welcome to join me in my bed,” Thomas’ voice is muffled since his face shoved into a pillow.

“What?”

Hamilton doesn't get a response and he isn't entirely sure what he heard. The best course of action, return to his room. So that's what he did. Sleep eventually found him after all.


	20. Secondary Motives

Washington is a stubborn man. Once his mind is made, it's hard to talk him around. However, firing your two best employees/co-founders at the same time isn't exactly a smart move.

Another month has passed from the time they got fired to when Thomas’ phone finally lights up.

Hamilton, nosy as ever, answers it for him since he was in the shower. The fact that the phone is also on the bathroom counter and Thomas is too busy singing to notice it ringing is of no consequences to Hamilton. He reaches in and snatches it after it becomes clear Thomas isn't going to answer.

When he sees it's Washington calling, his mood only grows sour. He slides the answer button over. “Hello, you've reached the Secretary of Mr. Jefferson. He's currently unavailable, how may I help you?” Hamilton answers in a sickly sweet tone, plopping on the couch and picking at his nails, the phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear.

His cast is off now, but his leg is still in a brace that's a bitch to take on and off for showers. The doctor said he can walk for short distances only around the house, but otherwise, crutches. It's an improvement.

“Is that you, Alexander?” Washington asks. Damn, he should've known that he'd recognize his voice. Playing the secretary card suddenly seemed like the stupidest idea ever. He should've gone with a better position. Damn it.

“Yes,” Hamilton purrs. “And it's Mr. Hamilton to you, sir.”

“Why are you answering Jefferson's phone?”

“As I said, he's currently unavailable. As head of the company, he's very busy and is in the middle of a board meeting.”

“At eight in the evening?”

Hamilton nods, puckering his lips slightly in an attempt not to smirk even though Washington can't see him. “As I said, very busy. A highly sought after man.”

The line was silent for a couple of seconds. “And you're his secretary?”

“Secretary of the Treasury,” Hamilton grinned maliciously. “Only for the company of course.”

“You're the last person he'd choose.”

“Maybe I was the last person. Either way, can I take a message?”

“I called to offer you and him your positions back,” Washington grumbles. “But I see now such an attempt is fruitless if you've already found yourself in new employment.”

“Well,” Hamilton croons. “I'm not completely settled in. Maybe you can convince me.”

Washington sighs, “I'll email you details.”

“Perfect. Good evening, Washington.”

“Oh, and Hamilton?”

“Yes?”

“Get a new phone.”

Hamilton ends the call at that and tosses it down on the table. Thomas was going to be thrilled by the news. Hamilton is. How many benefits could he wring out of this? If Washington has to swallow his pride and admit he is wrong, then he needs them. Needs them enough for Hamilton to gain something out of it.

“Hamilton!” Thomas voice cuts into his thoughts from the other side of the house. “My phone!”

Hamilton grins wryly as the door to Thomas’ room swings open with quite a bit of enthusiasm and Thomas comes marching down the hallway…in nothing but a towel…

Holy shit.

“Where is it?” he demands.

“Where's what?”

“My phone,” he says, snatching it up from the coffee table.

“Yeah, you left it there.”

“We both know that I didn't. Did you actually walk into the bathroom just to steal my phone?”

Hamilton is too busy raking over Thomas’ _exceptional_ figure. “-Oh, I'm sorry, what?” he asks, ripping his gaze back to meet Thomas’ who wears a slight smirk.

“Enjoying the view?”

Hamilton hums. He is indeed. “Washington called.”

“Well, what'd he want?” Hamilton breaks into a large grin. “Well? Spit it out,” Thomas says, scrolling through his phone checking for anything else Hamilton might have messed with.

“He’s giving us our jobs back.”

Thomas’ gaze rises from the screen of his phone to meet Hamilton’s bright gaze. “What?”

“I know! Isn’t it great? I’m sure there will be offered benefits. I made it very clear you’re a busy man, running your own shit. He had no clue either. How tight of a lid have you kept on the fact that you have your own company? Anyway, I told him we were much better off now and seems to be at the end of his rope. He’ll do anything to get us back.” Thomas is pinching the bridge of his nose again, a gesture Hamilton is familiar with. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Have you considered the possibility that I don’t want to go back?”

Hamilton snorted, “Be serious.”

“I am serious. I worked for that company because I simply wanted to see it grow into something better. Compared to it, mine is unimportant. Not only that but at some point, it’s going to have to change hands and I don’t want it to fall to me. I told you already, I want to retire.”

“You’re too young to retire.”

“Age has nothing to do with it. I want to be able to sit on the couch with a good book without having to worry about paperwork and deadlines. I want to enjoy and spoil and pamper my family. I don’t want my whole life to be typing away behind a computer and attending board meetings to decide our next _big thing._ I want to  _move_ and travel the world. See new things. Experience life. I can’t do that tied to a desk.”

A pause of silence fills the room as they look at each other.

“There’s always traveling jobs-” Hamilton starts and Thomas drops his head back and groans.

“Just-just stop talking. For once, please?”

“Fine, don’t take the job, stay home and be a lazy asshole potato. I don’t care.”

“No, you see, now I can’t do that because you’ve gone and told me that Washington is desperate for our help,” Thomas sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose again before dropping his hand. “I’m going to go get dressed and call him back,” he says, walking back to the room.

“Don’t undo all my work!” Hamilton calls after him. “I want my raise!” His only answer was the sound of Thomas’ door closing. Hamilton bites at his nails. Did he do something wrong? He doesn’t understand how Thomas doesn’t want to keep climbing up the corporate ladder. There’s so much to accomplish and so little time! And they both have a great head start, considering how young they are, where they started, and where they are now.

If only Thomas would just see how much he had going for him…The term ‘family man’ was not one Hamilton attached to himself. Not for another fifteen years at least.


	21. Change in Plans

It is a lot sooner than Hamilton expected when he is riding up the elevator next to Thomas in their work building. The silence between them weighs heavily on him. Thomas has hardly said anything more than necessary outside of sighs all morning and the day before after Hamilton stole his phone again.

Thomas was just on edge is all. Surely.

Hamilton glances sideways at him for what has to be millionth time in the elevator ride alone. Thomas sighs again. “You obviously want to say something, so just say it,” he says, resting his head against his fingertips

“This isn't my fault,” Hamilton says immediately. “It would've happened either way. I just happened to answer the phone and deliver the message. If I hadn't, you would've gotten it straight from the source and everything would've ended up the same except for the fact that you wouldn't be mad at me.”

Thomas drops his hand and looks at him. “Who says I'm mad at you?”

“You've hardly said a word to me all morning. Barely even look at me.”

Thomas’ eyebrows raise slightly. “You think I'm mad at you because I've been preoccupied?”

“Preoccupied? You've had nothing to do. And it's never stopped you from chatting before.”

“You usually start the conversations,” Thomas says. “If you haven't noticed. You must feel like you did something for me to upset with.”

“It doesn't matter who starts conversations, you won't talk to me.”

Thomas chuckles. “I am talking to you.”

“This doesn't count. It's a conversation about why you don't talk to me anymore.”

Thomas’ face was only growing more amused and Hamilton feels as if that only pisses him off more. Thomas holds up the black, professional, very important looking folder for Hamilton to see. “I've been busy thinking about this. Forgive me if I've seemed distant. I hope you know that I'm always open for a good-natured debate.”

“Good-natured?” Hamilton scoffs. “That's the last way I'd ever describe anything between us.”

“Oh? How'd you describe it then?” Thomas asks.

Hamilton opens his mouth but had no response. Luckily, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Thank God. The only word that had come to mind was tense. And that could mean too many different things.

Thomas steps out and Hamilton follows after him on his crutches. Curse that curly man's long strides. Then they're standing in front of the door Hamilton pick locked a month before, thinking about all the possible outcomes for this situation. Washington bids them enter after Thomas’ knuckles rap on the door.

Thomas floats inside, the cocky asshole, like he owns the place. A sense of confidence Hamilton both despises and admires.

“Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Hamilton,” Washington greets. “I'm glad you could make it. I have some matters I'd like to discuss with you both. But first, I'm glad to see your recovery is going well, Alex.”

“It's still, Mr. Hamilton to you, thank you.”

Washington sighs, gesturing for them to take a seat. Once they have, Washington launches into his explanation of restoring them to their former positions in the company, along with their places on the board.

“I'm sorry, sir, I didn't come here to be rehired,” Thomas cuts in at a pause.

“I'm sorry, what?” the question belongs to Hamilton though Washington's face asks the same through expression.

“I've made myself clear on multiple occasions. I'm retiring. I don't want this job. In fact,” Thomas sets the black folder on Washington's desk, his fingertips still on top of it. “I came with my own offer as a businessman.”

“ _What?”_ Hamilton says again.

Washington studies the black folder for a second and then Thomas. “Before we consider your proposal, allow me to finish. I am retiring as well. I plan on leaving the company in the hands of Mr. Adams.”

“ _What?!”_ Hamilton is nearly out of his chair.

“You're making John CEO?” Thomas asks. “I mean, I love the guy, but I don't exactly agree with the way he runs things.”

“He's perfectly qualified,” Washington says. “And the rest of the board agree.”

Thomas groans and Hamilton is considering. “Alright, I can get behind Adams,” Hamilton says.

“You people just won't let me go home, will you?” Thomas asks, scooping up his folder. “Fine. Yes. You don't even need to say it. I accept.” He stands and is already walking for the door. “Come on Hamilton. Let's go.”

“We're not done here,” he starts.

“Yes, we are. I already know how this meeting ends.” Thomas looks at Washington. “Madison was behind this, wasn't he?”

“Well, he certainly supported the idea,” Washington says.

“Of course he did,” Thomas grumbles. “Let's go, Hamilton,” he says again, leaving the office.

Hamilton looks to Washington. “What just happened?”

“Mr. Jefferson just accepted the position of COO. He'll be answering directly under Adams.”

Hamilton swears, grabs his crutches, and hauls ass after Thomas.

Luckily, Thomas is waiting for him by the elevator, tapping his foot, just wanting to go home. “What the hell?” Hamilton asks upon catching up. “I thought you were retiring?”

“I was,” Thomas answers, stepping into the elevator with him. “But I'll be damned if I leave at the same time as Washington. I'll not see everything I've worked for fall apart.”

“It won't. Go be your cheery self and retire. I know you don't want this job. Even your hair is all droopy.”

“What?”

“I'm telling you, your hair is like, your main outlet of emotion. It's weird.”

Thomas pats his head, fluffing his hair a little, something Hamilton now wants to do. “I'll retire after I'm sure the company is stable again,” he says. “Besides, weren't you saying that you thought it was better if I kept working?”

“That was before. But with Adams running things, I'd practically be in control of the whole company.”

Thomas crosses his arms. “Exactly. Not going to happen while I'm around.”

“Damn it, Thomas, just go home and enjoy your books. Adams won't listen to your advice anyway. He agrees with me on how things should be run.”

“No, he agrees with most things you say. Not all. You're too extreme.”

Hamilton scoffs. “I'm right, is what I am.”

Thomas chuckles in slight amusement, shaking his head. “You don't think things through, do you?”

“Actually, I do. I'm just willing to make sacrifices other people won't.”

Thomas pokes his forehead with one of those elegant fingers. “Exactly.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes. “So what was the black folder about?”

“I was going to sell Washington my company.”

“You were _what?”_

Thomas laughs. “What do you want for dinner?”


	22. Well Fuck

There were many things Hamilton wants in life. But he never thought Thomas would be one of them.

Of course, he would never willingly, knowingly, admit this to himself. He has spent far too much time dedicating himself to hating the asshole that admitting that he was wrong in this matter would be far too painful.

Having his job back provides the perfect distraction. He is still living with Thomas even though he really could go back to his own house. Thomas just never kicks him out and Hamilton has never really realized he has reached the point where he could go home. 

His leg is still in a brace and crutches are required for outside of the house. That hasn’t changed. And wouldn’t for a while. 

Hamilton promises Washington he would do the work that would keep the company stable from home until he is more recovered. And should something require his actual presence, then he’ll go into work. Hamilton just doesn’t like people seeing him injured is all.

Bonus, he finally got a new phone.

For now, he lounging on the couch in Thomas’ living room, his feet resting on top of Thomas’ lap as they watch a movie. Well, Hamilton is watching a movie. Thomas is reading. With those damn glasses perching on his nose. Hamilton isn't entirely sure what he wants to do about that. Rip them off his face and chuck them across the room, or, just grab his face and assault it with his own face. Specifically lips. 

Neither happens. 

Thomas glances over at him and quirks an eyebrow. “You have a very concentrated look,” he says. “Any reason why?”

“Yeah, I'm trying not to break your glasses,” Hamilton says.

Thomas shakes his head with a soft laugh. “You really hate my glasses, don't you?”

“With a passion.”

“Well, you're missing your movie because you're watching me instead. Do you want me to turn it off?”

“No, I'm paying attention,” Hamilton swivels his back around to the screen. He honestly has no idea what happened in the last half hour of the movie. Oh well.

Now that he's actually paying attention, Thomas’ phone interrupts. “Haven't you ever heard the term, silence your phone at the movies?” Hamilton gripes.

Thomas pulls it out. “This is my house. I can do whatever the hell I want,” he says, pausing the movie and answering. “Hello,” he hums.

Hamilton watches Thomas listen to the other person on the other side of the phone, stuffing popcorn in his face. Maybe if it isn't for his chewing, he could actually hear what's being said. 

His face stuffing slows to a stop as Thomas’ smile dissolves and his face drains completely of blood, leaving him pale and looking shell shocked. Thomas finishes up the call, “Thank you for letting me know. Yes, I'll be there as soon as I can.” Then it just slides from his fingers and thuds to the floor.

“Thomas? What's happened?” Hamilton asks, leaning forward placing a hand to his upper arm. Thomas' head is hanging down and his arms are loosely resting against his knees.

“I, uh,” he pauses, licking his lips to rewet them, trying to work past the tightness in his throat. “I need to return to Virginia,” he manages.

“What? Why?”

Thomas is already swiping his hands across his face and eyes. A movement that's mostly concealed to Hamilton by Thomas’ hair. “My daughter just died,” he whispers, half choked. He stands before Hamilton can respond, not that he knows how to, his mouth is just hanging open in attempt to find words. “I'm sorry,” Thomas says, “Please excuse me.” His long strides carry him down the hall and his bedroom door shuts a moment later.

Hamilton is left alone on the couch, staring after him. He has no idea what to do, how to comfort him. There's nothing to say. There's no softly whispered, 'it's going to be okay,’ that'll help. Because it's not. It's not okay. 

Hamilton tries his hardest to pretend he can't hear the ugly sounds that still manage to escape the confines of Thomas’ room. Hamilton was never good at helping people grieve. His trick was to just, well, not grieve. Made him cold hearted sometimes. 

After awhile of indecisiveness, Hamilton pulls out his own phone. 

**To Madison:**

**From Alexander:**

**Thomas needs you right now.**

Hopefully, the man isn't busy. 

**_Why? And don't tell me he's horny this time._ **

**No. He's sobbing in his room and needs his friend.**

**_On my way._ **

Hamilton breathes out a bit in relief. Madison would know what to do.

His phone is still in his hands, seeming to stare up at him. Hamilton really shouldn't be here anymore.

**To John:**

**From Alexander:**

**Can you pick me up?**

Hopefully, John wasn't still sour about their encounter in the park.

**_Where are you?_ **

**Thomas' house. I really need out of here.**

**_Send me the address and I'm on my way._ **

Hamilton did so, very grateful to have John in his life. Even if he could be a bit of a dick to him. John really didn't deserve some of the things Hamilton did in the park. He is a reliant and good friend.

James, evidently, is as well. And doesn't live far, because he's there before Hamilton even realizes. Doesn't even knock. Just swings open the door, stashing his key back into his pocket and takes one look at Hamilton before striding over. 

“What happened?” he asks.

“Um, his daughter died,” Hamilton says.

James swears, and is down the hallway in an instant, gently knocking on Thomas’ door. 

“Thomas,” he calls softly. “Let me in, it's James.”

It take a moment but the door opens and James slips inside before it's closed again. It was a good decision to text Madison, Hamilton decides. 

He sits there silently and fidgets until his phone alerts him to John's text. 

**_I'm outside._ **

Thank God. 

Hamilton grabs his crutches and any medication that required, as well as a few other things, and makes his way down to John's car, stashing his items inside and slipping into the passenger chair.

John drives them away and Hamilton watches the house shrink in the distance.


	23. Car Ride

At first, the car is awkward silence. Either John is giving Hamilton time to collect his thoughts, or he’s waiting for him to start talking of his own accord. Which, normally, is something that Hamilton typically does. But right now, he’s too preoccupied by the guilt coiling and uncoiling in his gut. 

Thomas has been caring for Hamilton for well over a month. A couple months. Hamilton honestly lost track of time. But now, the first moment Thomas could use a bit of support, Hamilton up and ditches without so much as a goodbye.

“Alex?” John asks.

Ah. Yes. There’s another person in this car. “What?” Hamilton responds.

“Mind telling me why I’ve been on radio silence and then am suddenly picking you up from Jefferson’s house?”

Hamilton remains quiet for a while longer. “It’s complicated.”

“Okay, no. That’s not going to cut it. I thought you were  _ dead.  _ I was  _ grieving.  _ And then I find you in a park, with  _ Jefferson.” _

“-John”

“No, my turn. Do you know what it’s like? I didn’t even know what happened. You just,  _ disappeared,  _ Alex. No word to anyone. Not even me.”

“-John”

“And you were in a  _ wheelchair.  _ What was I supposed to think? Alex, you’re my best friend, this is not okay!”

“John! For god’s sake! Pull over before you get us both killed!” Hamilton yells, his hands braced against the dash. John swerves off the road and comes to an abrupt halt, breathing heavily and clutching the steering wheel tightly. They both sit there in a moment of adrenaline filled silence. John eventually swallows.

“I looked  _ everywhere _ for you, Alexander. I came home and there was a smashed window and the coffee pot was in pieces like you tried to bash it over someone's head. What was I supposed to think? Not even Herc knew and he knows everything. You're not supposed to lie to your friends, you're supposed to let them help you,” John said, much more calmly than when the conversation first started. “Even after that dick move you pulled in the park, I came and got you. I deserve to know.”

Hamilton sighs slowly. “You're right. I was a dick. I was just startled by the fact you found me in a wheelchair. I didn't want anyone to see me like that.”

“You let  _ Jefferson  _ see you like that.”

“I really didn't have much say in the matter. He already knew about it.”

“I was right?” John firmly plants his fist on top of the steering wheel. “That son of a bitch, I'm going to smash his face in.”

Hamilton laughs. “John, seriously, you sound jealous. Thomas didn't put me in a wheelchair. He just happened to be around. He's actually been helping with my recovery. The asshole. What happened is that I crashed my motorcycle.”

John looks more confused than anything, his fingers drumming against the wheel in thought. “So why the S.O.S?” John asks. “What happened to suddenly make you flee from his house?”

Hamilton falters. He's not entirely sure if that's for him to tell. “Something happened in Thomas’ personal life and I really didn't need to be there for it,” Hamilton finally answers.

“Oh, so you ditched him too?” John asks. “Well, at least you treat all your friends the same,” he mutters.

“Thomas is not my-” Hamilton immediately begins to protest but stops short. Hamilton holds no hatred for the guy. And their relationship resembles that of a, “....-friend.”

John snorts and pulls the car back onto the road. “You sound certain,” he says sarcastically. “When you start feeling the need to talk about how dreamy his eyes are, remember that I don't want to hear it. That's Gilbert's type of gossip.”

Hamilton scoffs. “I think no such thing. I might not hate him like I used to, but I'll never think his eyes are dreamy, of all things,” he says disgustedly. If anything, he'd describe Thomas’ eyes as warm. 

“Sure,” John drawls. “Whatever you say.”


	24. Close Enough

John parks outside their house. It's not nearly as nice as the one Thomas has, but it's still beautiful. Home. Hamilton can't help but smile at the familiar sight. John seems to have fixed the window Hamilton broke the same day he crashed. 

Hamilton uses his crutches to get inside, but once he's there, he sets them aside and slowly lowers his weight onto his braced leg. “You got a new coffee pot,” he says.

“You smashed the other one,” John says, tossing keys into a bowl.

“This place is a mess.” It's true. There are take-out and pizza boxes scattered everywhere. Blankets and tissues sitting in piles. Unwashed dishes. Sure, Hamilton isn't a very clean person, but this was beyond him. 

“Like I said,” John says, walking forward and starting to pick stuff up. “I was grieving. And then I was angry. There's a hole in my bedroom wall.”

“Oh.” Hamilton walks forwards and starts to help out. Most of the shit gets shoved into trash cans. Blankets and clothes are thrown at hampers and later taken to a washer. “Is that my shirt?” Hamilton asks, pointing at one John picked up.

“Yeah,” John says. “Smelled like you.”

“Why would you-” John deadpans him a look after Hamilton trails off. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” John says bluntly, tossing the shirt into the laundry as well. 

“John, I had no idea,” Hamilton starts.

“Well, now you do. Just leave it alone, okay?” he asks, looking over at him. 

Hamilton gives him a slow nod. Alright, then. He honestly has no idea how he feels about this development. 

It doesn't take long for them to have the house semi-clean again. Enough for it to at least feel normal and like one of them didn't have an emotional breakdown. Several times. Best left unspoken. Letting it hang awkwardly in the air seems like a much better option.

Hamilton decides to retreat to his room and just avoid everything. His own house doesn't even feel that welcoming anymore. Like he is intruding on someone else's life rather than his own. Sleep seems like the best cure.

Sleep doesn't come.

He spends the next hour tossing a turning in bed. Staring at the ceiling or the wall or the window or his bookcase. Mostly his bookcase. Another half hour passes before he finds himself throwing back the covers and grabbing a book. 

Book clutched in hand, he pads down the hallway, knocking gently on John's door. It would only be awkward if he makes it awkward. Just be like he normally is and everything is fine. 

John's voice calls him inside. The opening of the door greets him with a shirtless John lounging in bed as he scrolls through his phone. A normal thing for Hamilton to walk into. “What do you need?” John asks, looking over at him.

Hamilton silently hands him the book and lies down in bed next to him. “Can't sleep,” he mutters. “Would you read to me?”

John looks at him for a moment before nodding. “Sure. What chapter?”

“Twenty-three.”

John flips through the pages before finding where he needs to be. A moment after, his voice fills the room. Hamilton closes his eyes and listens. It's not the story he ends up listening to, but the voice. The southern accent is a bit thicker. South Carolina is farther south than Virginia. It has the same lilt though, even if John doesn't put the same personality into the individual characters. It's more like a book rather than a tale with him.

Close enough. 

John is close enough.


	25. Cool, Early Morning Air

The window is open. Curtains stir softly in the air as early morning light filters through, bringing with it the chilling breeze that has Hamilton cuddling closer to Thomas. Hamilton has never liked the cold, and the bed just isn't warm enough. Stealing heat from another body in his mostly unconscious state seems the best option. 

Still, he couldn't get quite warm enough, no matter how close he burrowed, going as far as to bury his face in long curly hair. For some reason, he couldn't help thinking that Thomas is usually much warmer, like a fucking heater.

As time passes and Hamilton slowly wakens more, he's trying to think of anything except looking up at Thomas' face, knowing he wouldn't be able to resist those lips this early in the morning and this close together. 

So he focuses on everything else instead. 

Like how Thomas seems a lot smaller when cuddling. And how his hair wasn't as corkscrewy. 

Hamilton's eyes snapped open and something heavy drops into Hamilton's stomach as his gaze slides over John. Right. He’s home again. And John read him to sleep last night. And then apparently cuddled him all night.

And Thomas.

Thomas is at his house.

Which Hamilton abandoned.

Right.

Well.

Hamilton slowly pulls from John's arms, earning a soft sound of protest from the sleeping man. When Hamilton is finally free of his grasp, he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet coming into contact with the ocean cold floor. 

Why did this house seem so cold?

He sighs softly and stands. Where is his brace? Ah, there. Thomas would never let it go if he finds out Hamilton attempted to walk without it. Best not risk it and just wear it.

However, with it, his footsteps are heavy and easy to hear. Which means the moment he tries walking from the room, John wakes up. Of course, just his luck to lose the ability to slink out of rooms like nothing happened. 

“Alex?” John asks in that gravely, early morning voice. It thickens his accent even more. “Where are you going?”

“Breakfast,” Hamilton replies. “Cereal, probably.” Not hot, fluffy pancakes with eggs and bacon and fruit. Coated with syrup and topped with delicious whipped cream. 

That's right. Hamilton has never woken up in the same bed as Thomas on the rare occasion they accidentally fall asleep together. Thomas is already gone and making breakfast by the time Hamilton stirs.

Except the one time Thomas tripped and ended up sleeping with Hamilton on the couch because of his demand he not move lest he be in pain. That time didn't count.

Why was he thinking about this?

“Oh, alright,” John sinks back down into his pillows, evidently not ready to move yet.

Hamilton raids his cabinets but ends up just relaxing on the couch with a hot cup of coffee. Thomas didn't text him and Hamilton tries not to be disappointed by that fact. Surely, he'd be curious about where Hamilton disappeared off to.

No. Thomas had enough on his mind as it is. He'd see Thomas at work tomorrow, now that they both worked again.

That's right. Hamilton hasn't entirely ditched him. They'd see each other at work tomorrow.


	26. Time Drags On

Hamilton doesn't see Thomas at work the next day.

Ever since Washington took the back into the company, Thomas has been flooded with work. Work he has been mostly accomplishing at home while caring for Hamilton, who, as per agreement, stayed home from work until he is completely healed.

Today is an exception. Thomas is supposed to be here. He's not. Hamilton came for nothing. 

He taps his fingers across the keys of his keyboard absentmindedly, watching the doors. Maybe if he watches them with enough determination, Thomas will saunter through as flamboyant as ever. He doesn't. Instead, Hamilton's eyes follow Madison. 

Maybe he hasn't come in for nothing after all. 

“Madison,” Hamilton calls and gestures him over inside his office. It seems much simpler this way instead of trying to walk over.

Madison stands in front of him expectantly, waiting for Hamilton to say whatever on his mind. “Where's Thomas?” he asks.

“Thomas?” James questions. “I wasn't certain you were interested in knowing. You did leave without telling him after all.”

A scowl settles over his face. “It seemed like the right thing at the time. How's he holding up?”

“As well as can be expected,” James says.

“I expected him to come into work?”

James looks at him like he's stupid. “You really don't know a thing about him, do you?” he asks. “Have you ever lost a kid? Do you have any idea what that's like?”

“No, I-”

“Then shut up. You don't get to leave and then expect to be involved in everything. He's not coming into work for a while to play your twisted games,” James says. “In fact, I'm here only to deliver these files,” he holds up a few. “This one's for you. Good day, Mr. Hamilton,” James says, turning in his heel. “If you'll excuse me, I must deliver these and then take Thomas home to Virginia. We've a funeral to attend.”

The door closes after him and Hamilton stares at the wood. Thomas really is leaving for Virginia. For some reason, the whole situation feels unreal. Jefferson has a daughter? Had. The fact is just dawning on Hamilton. 

Madison is right. Hamilton really doesn't know anything about the man named Thomas Jefferson.

Hamilton does the one thing he can do. Goes back to work. Spends the next several hours distracting himself from his mistakes. It isn't until his computer screen goes black that Hamilton is able to tear his tired gaze from it and up to meet the eyes of John.

“What'd you do that for?” Hamilton asks as John drops his hand from where he had pushed the power button.

“It's time to go home, Alex,” he says.

“What? No. It's only been a few hours.”

John's rubs his eyes in exhaustion. “It's after midnight. Come on, Alex, let's go.”

Hamilton's gaze slides to the clock and sure enough, John's right. Begrudgingly, he stuffs some papers into his briefcase and stands, stretching out his back before following John out of his office and all the way back home. 

Dinner consists of more fast food. It's quick and easy and currently, the only thing open. Hamilton has his devoured before they even make it home. He doesn't even bother to change before flopping down onto his bed and not moving for the rest of the night.


	27. Patience's End

By the end of two weeks, Hamilton still hasn't seen or heard from Thomas. Even James is MIA. To be fair, Hamilton hasn't exactly texted anyone either. 

That didn't mean the weird feeling in his chest has disappeared though. No. It stubbornly remains. Every second, Hamilton fidgets restlessly, waiting for something.

He hates waiting.

Burr told him it was this thing called worry and concern. Hamilton laughed in his face at that. Him, worried about Thomas? As if.

But now, as week three slowly passes, the feeling increases and Hamilton often finds himself staring at the text screen of his phone. Sometimes he'll type something, but it's always deleted and never sent. 

By the end of week three, his finger finally taps the send button. 

**To A Fucking Asshole:**

**From Alexander:**

**Hey.**

He immediately regrets it. Never, in his life, has he willingly texted Thomas just for the sake of texting him. To see how he's doing. What he's up to. It feels like his organs are twisting into knots. 

Is there a way to unsend a text? Any at all? 

Nope. He is screwed. 

Hamilton waits anxiously for a response. Tapping his fingers and staring at the screen. Four hours later, while Hamilton sits at his desk, watching the screen of his phone out of the corner of his eye, the indicator switches from sent to read.

Instantly, the phone is in his hands and he's waiting for the dots to show up to signify Thomas is typing. 

None show. 

“That fucking asshole,’ Hamilton gripes, tossing his phone back down onto his desk. “The least he could do is text me back. Send a fucking comma for all I care. Or a 'fuck off,’ but noooo.” Hamilton sighs and drops his head against his hand, threading his fingers back into his hair and picking up his head again. “That's it. I'm going to kick his fucking door in.”

John appears in the doorway. “What the hell are you ranting about?”

Hamilton stands from his desk suddenly, “I'm going to Virginia!” he proclaims, throwing a bag onto the bed.

“Bloody hell, dude, no need to yell. Why are you going to Virginia?”

“I'm going to fucking deck Thomas Jefferson in the face.”

“Oh, well. You've got my seal of approval. Just avoid assault charges.”

Hamilton starts throwing randoms things into the bag and zips it shut a bit too zealously. His phone is swiped off the desk. Still nothing. 

**Fuckface, answer my text.**

He decides to give Jefferson however many hours it takes to drive to Virginia to respond. His packed bag is shouldered and he walks toward the door, right past John. But then he stops. “Hey. You wouldn't by chance know where Thomas actually lives, do you?”

“Not a clue,” John says. “Probably a penthouse in the middle of the richest section of a city. Are you actually serious about this?”

“Absolutely,” Hamilton says. “Nothing can get done at work now without him. This no time for a fucking radio silence vacation. I don't care who he is. I'm going to kick his door down and punch him in those perfect teeth.

He presses his phone to his ear, not giving John a chance to reply as he whisks out the door and into his car. 

“Hello?” the other person finally answers his call.

“James! I need directions to Thomas’ house.”

“Absolutely not.”  _ Click. _

“The motherfucker hung up on me!” So, best thing to do, call him again.

“I'm not telling you,” James said in way of answer.

“Come on, if you don't tell me then I'll just find it another way.”

“No.” James hangs up again.

“Fuck you too!” Hamilton says into the dead line. Grumbling, he drives to work instead. Thomas’ address is somewhere in the system. Hamilton just has to hack in and he's golden.


	28. Well, Shit

The drive is long. Too long. It sucks. But his endless well of energy and several coffee stops keeps him going. The entire way there, he's ranting to himself and trying to think of ways to announce his presence. He could always just kick in the door like he said he would. But if Thomas had one daughter, he could have still more. That doesn't seem like the best thing to do in that possibility.

Though, now possessing the knowledge that Thomas has kids, his line if reasoning about retiring and being with his family made a little more sense.

Even if Hamilton is still bent on the belief that the family should understand the work Thomas does is important.

The final stretch to Jefferson's house, his driveway, feels like the longest part of the drive. Seriously, how long does a driveway need to be? Eventually, the trees give way to a clearing as the road slowly makes its way up a hill.

 _Well. It's no penthouse._ “No. It's just a fucking mansion settled on a beautiful hilltop overlooking luscious plantlife,” Hamilton grumbles to himself.

He's already drumming the steering wheel anxiously. Now that he's there, the entire mission seems a lot more daunting. Plus, it made absolutely no sense. Why was he even here?

To drag Thomas’ ass back to New York because he won't fucking answer his phone, that's why.

Out of the car and up to the door. Hamilton shifts from foot to foot with abundant amounts of energy. There's still a chance to turn around.

After what seems like an eternity, the door finally responds to his incessant knocking by opening. Hamilton happens to be looking at ground in that moment. “Listen here you obnoxious, senseless-” his words choke off in his throat when his eyes don't meet Thomas’, but that instead of a beautiful woman. “You're not Thomas,” he says instead of an apology.

“Mr. Hamilton, I assume,” she replied.

“Yeah, um. Who are you?” He knows exactly who she is. He's seen her pictures.

“Martha Jefferson, I'm Thomas’ wife,” she says.


	29. Thin Lines

Everything inside Hamilton just shatters apart. He doesn't even know fully  _ why. _ All he can do in that moment is stare at her. At Martha. He had assumed she was dead and that Jefferson wears his ring out of a sense of sentimentality. But no. 

_ Jefferson's married. _

“Is there something you need, Mr. Hamilton?” she asks.

Snapping out of whatever holds him, “Oh, um, yeah. Is, er, Jefferson home?”

“Yes. He's in our room. Is it important? I'd like to return to him. If your matter could wait…” It's obvious she's trying to get Hamilton to leave. She wants to care for her grieving husband who is in no condition for anything work related. Or stress related. Or anything basically Hamilton related.

Hamilton is standing on a precipice and he doesn't even know it.  _ Don't walk off. _

“Mrs. Jefferson, Thomas has been absent from work for three weeks. He holds a very high position and we very much need him.”

“He's grieving with his family,” she says softly. “Let him have the time he needs.”

_ What's left of his family.  _

“Martha, dear, who's at the door?” says a voice Hamilton can never forget. That soft, southern drawl. He must've come downstairs after Martha's prolonged absence. Martha looks over her shoulder and opens the door a bit wider for Jefferson to join her, wrapping an arm about her waist. “Hamilton? What are you doing here?”

Hamilton is taken aback. Jefferson stands before him after being the main part of his life for a couple months and then disappearing for nearly a whole month. 

He looks terrible.

He is dressed in a thin robe and some pajama bottoms. Which isn't so terrible if Hamilton didn't notice how loosely they hang from his normally filled out frame. He skin doesn't glow with its normal youth and vigor and enthusiasm for the world. The bags under his eyes are practically purple from lack of sleep and his facial hair has gone from neat and well kempt to scraggly. Jefferson's normal perky and bouncy hair seems almost… deflated.

Everything here is so wrong.

“I wanted to offer my condolences,” he finds himself saying. Jefferson just watches him with tired eyes in disbelief. Seconds of silence seem like an eternity. “...and apologize for running out as I did,” Hamilton says, pressure from the prolonged silence prompting him. 

“No, you did the right thing,” Thomas says. “Thank you, for sending James.”

“Right,” Hamilton says awkwardly. “So…”

“You've driven a long way,” Thomas says with a lifeless smile. “Come in, have dinner, stay the night.”

“Are you sure, darling?” Martha asks. “The house is a mess. I haven't cleaned-”

Thomas smiles at his wife, tucking a bit of lose hair behind her ear. “Have you even listened to a single thing I've told you about Hamilton? The house will look sparkling clean in his eyes, don't you worry.”

Hamilton feels like he's intruding. “No, that's okay. I'd rather not. I have shit to do and-”

“I insist,” Thomas says, opening the door wider for Hamilton to enter as he steps back out of the way with Martha, walking into the house and fully expecting Hamilton to follow. After a moment of internal debate, Hamilton does, closing the door behind him. 

Thomas is right. Not only is the house huge, it's well kempt and clean. Martha is insane if she thinks this is considered a mess. Thomas guides them all to a sitting room, where Martha immediately bustles to fold a rumpled blanket that was on on couch, as if the smallest wrinkle might insult a guest. Hamilton comes close to pointing at a polished surface and saying,  _ you missed a spot, _ just to see what would happen. Didn't dare to. Not right now. 

Martha really fixed that blanket just for Hamilton to sit down and ruin it again? He couldn't fathom. For now, standing seems like the best option since neither Mrs. nor Mr. Jefferson have taken a seat either. Martha looks up at her husband and smiles at her guest. “I'll go prepare some dinner.”

Thomas’ arm tightens around her waist, keeping her in place. “Nonsense. I'll make dinner.”

She looks up at him in surprise. “You will?”

Thomas laughs softly. It was slightly strained, but at least it wasn't forced. “Yes, love. I haven't forgotten how.” He dips down and kisses her softly before sweeping off and into the kitchen. Martha watches after him for a moment, as if some miracle just performed. Despite what is obviously an improvement, Hamilton can't help but latch onto how his chest twisted painfully when their lips met. 

Martha turns to him again, smiling softly. There's no denying she's a beautiful woman. The type you'd expect to see on the arm of someone like Thomas. Though part of Hamilton suspects that Thomas is really the one on her arm. Long, soft brunette hair tumbles down her shoulders, slightly curly but verging more on wavy. Clear, brown eyes and a tall, slender frame that fits against Thomas perfectly. No, that detail does not escape Hamilton's notice. Call it a hunch, but Hamilton knows from the pictures on Thomas’ phone that Martha usually curls her hair, but lately, with certain events, it has been too much to bother with.

“Please, make yourself at home,” she says, gesturing to the couch. Hamilton doesn't even have to touch it to know it's expensive. Probably imported from somewhere. Has to admits it's comfortable though.

“I apologize for my intrusion,” Hamilton says. “I know it has to have been hard for the two of you lately.”

She nods solemnly. “Thomas only recently started venturing out of the bedroom a few days ago. Hasn't even looked at or expressed interest in cooking since he came home.”

“But Thomas loves cooking,” Hamilton says in disbelief.

“Yes, he adores it. It breaks my heart to see him this way,” she says. “In a way, your arrival is a gift. Makes the house seem less empty.”

“Doesn't James visit?”

“Oh, sure. When he has time. He's been busy at work, trying to get Thomas’ work straightened out and completed for him. He is a good man. We owe him a great deal.”

Ah. That explains James’ shortness with Hamilton earlier. 

Ha. Shortness.

“I truly am sorry for your loss,” Hamilton murmurs. “Would you mind if I joined your husband in the kitchen? I need to talk to him.”

“Oh, of course,” she says, standing and smoothing her skirts. It really isn't hard for Hamilton to picture her in eighteenth century attire. “Just, no bickering. He's had a hard enough time as it is. I don't need the two of you turning the kitchen into a warzone.”

Hamilton chuckled quietly. “You have my word.” Maybe that's what Thomas needs. Someone to banter with as a distraction from the constant sadness that surrounds him in this house. Who could possibly stand a house this big with only memories of lost loved ones to fill it?

Hamilton. 

Hamilton would love it. 

Never would admit it, but he would, nonetheless. It's his type of thing. Definitely needed redecoration though. Not to insult Martha or anything, but it wasn't exactly his style. But, it is Thomas’, so of course Hamilton has to insult it.

His footsteps echo throughout the empty halls. Thankfully, one foot no longer makes a heavy this everytime the brace made contact with the floor. His brace came off a few days ago, and with it, Hamilton felt a profound sense of freedom. There's no describing how happy he was that day. 

With a soft knock, Hamilton ventures into the spacious kitchen where he finds Thomas none other than mincing. A happy memory now tinged with sadness.

A jibe is already on the tip of his tongue, but Martha's words force Hamilton to swallow it back down. 

So, like a smooth fuck, Hamilton says, “Hey.”

Thomas looks over his shoulder to see Hamilton. “Oh, hey. I didn't realize you'd join me back here.”

“If I'm being honest, I started to doubt if I would. I got lost twice. Your office is hideous.”

Thomas snorts, scraping what he has minced so far into a pan. “Only you would come all the way to Virginia to insult my office. In my house. While I make you dinner.”

“Aren't I the best?” Hamilton grins.

The lack of a response does not help at all. In fact, an awkward silence descends on the room. 

“I'll glad to see your leg healed well,” Thomas finally says, setting a lid on a pan and reducing the heat to a light simmer.

“Oh! Yeah, it's been a relief to be able to walk unhindered. I can't thank you enough for all the help you gave me,” Hamilton says, stepping up to Thomas’ side. “I kinda wish you'd been there to see the brace come off and everything.”

“Sorry, I missed it.” The lack of emotion in Thomas’ voice very plainly shows that he just doesn't care at that precise moment. 

Hamilton sighs softly. “Look, Thomas, I'm so sorry that you're going through this right now. And, I, well, I want to help. Like you helped me.”

“You can't.”

“You could let me try.”

“Bones heal, Hamilton,” Thomas states. “Things like this don't.”

Hamilton wedges himself between Thomas and the counter so he can look him in the eyes. “Let me try.”

“What're you going to do?” Thomas asks, narrowing those beautiful eyes, even as his lips speak with bitterness. “What could you do that Martha and I haven't already tried?”

“First of all,” Hamilton says, taking a risky move, considering they're current stance, and setting his hands on Thomas’ waist, if only to accentuate the profound loss of weight. “I won't let you sit around and waste away. Come back to work with me.”

The consideration that can be seen in Thomas’ eyes flood his chest with hope. 

“I can't abandon Martha. Not now.”

And that hope is crushed.

“She'll be fine,” Hamilton insists. “She's a strong woman. Beautiful. I'm sure she has friend she could visit. But the best thing for you is to come with me, and go back to work.” 

“I think your reasoning is a bit off, numbskull.”

“My reasoning is spot on,” Hamilton replies. “Which do you think is healthier, going back to work? To use as a distraction to get your life back on track? Or sit at home, waste away, only thinking of your dead kid?”

The anger the flashes briefly through Thomas’ eyes makes Hamilton flinch back. It had been pure rage at Hamilton's last statement. But Thomas seems to be in no condition to hold onto it and it dies quickly.

Luckily for Hamilton. 

Thomas moves away from Hamilton and retrieves some wine. “I'll think about it.”


	30. Spilled Coffee

 

Dinner is far more awkward than Hamilton likes. Or maybe that's just him. Martha and Thomas seem to think that such a quiet dinner is normal. Maybe it wasn't before, but since the death of a child, it is highly possible it became so.

Martha glances over at Hamilton, probably understanding that he, unlike the two of them, has a need for a conversation over a meal. "So, Mr. Hamilton-"

"Alex, please," Hamilton smiles.

"Alex," she corrects. "Do you have any interests outside of work."

Thomas snorts, stirring the food on his plate pointlessly. Hamilton glares. "I do, actually, contrary to popular belief" he says, shooting Thomas a look. "I am usually just so busy with work that I never have the opportunity to pursue them."

"Perhaps you are prioritizing the wrong things in your life then," she hums. Hamilton does his best not to comment that she sounds just like Thomas. "Do you have a wife? A family? A husband?" she adds on.

"None of the above," Hamilton says with a small smile. "I'm a single pringle."

"You did not just say that," Thomas groans.

"I did, deal with it." Hamilton turns his attention back to the lovely Mrs. Jefferson. "I do have a few friends that I go out for drinks with now and then though."

"Oh, I wish you all my best then," she smiles.

"Thank you."

Silence fell again. Fantastic. Hamilton wants more than anything to bolt out of that house and drive all the way home. But, he knows if he left now, the chances of Thomas coming back to work within the next few days are slim. Hamilton has to sit here and bother him until Thomas pulls his head out of his ass and wakes up.

People die. That's how life works. It is time that Thomas moved on. Honestly. Seeing him so...depressed makes Hamilton want to throw up in Martha's pristine rose bushes. Maybe it was the fact that Hamilton just wants to see Thomas smile again. See the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners each time he does. Here that irritatingly sexy drawl that thickens when sleepy, or flirty, or just being an asshole because he knows what it can do to a man's self control. Damn him.

Hamilton swears just then that he isn't leaving this house unaccompanied.

***

Apparently, they have no spare, male pajamas here that just happened to fit him, imagine that. And Hamilton has forgotten his own in his rush to pack. So, what he ends up with were a pair of Thomas'. Never will he admit it, but he sleeps easier that night, surrounded by Thomas' smell, than he has in the entire time since he abandoned Thomas to his grief. Though it still takes him a while to actually get to sleep. The quiet night of the country, only disturbed by crickets and nature sounds, is unnatural to Hamilton, who much prefers to constant honking and the yelling people.

Morning still comes to quickly, as it always does. He never bothers getting out of bed, knowing that Thomas will barge in announcing breakfast.

Except, he never does. It's near one, maybe after one, when Hamilton finally emerges from the guest room, fully dress and ready for the day. Wandering down stairs ends up in an adventure. Martha left him a note telling him that she had errands that simply could not be put off and to make himself at home. And if Hamilton were to guess, that would mean Thomas never made it out of bed this morning.

Now.

Where is Thomas' room?

No. First, where is the coffee maker?

***

"Thomas!" Hamilton yells, barging into Thomas's room, carrying two cups of coffee. He had done the exact same thing to three previous rooms until he got the correct one. Hamilton stops dead in his tracks, his eyes fixing on Thomas in bed, naked. More specifically, on Thomas' nude ass.

_Oh god, this is a mistake._

Thomas groaned. "You really should learn to knock."

Hamilton recovers, glad that Thomas' face is planted in a pillow instead of looking at Hamilton's flushed face. A blush that is, thankfully, receding fast. "Fun and active night, eh, Thomas?" Though his tone ss on the playful mocking side, his stomach, once again, does that weird, twisting and tightening.

"No," Thomas replied simply, not moving. "Are you going to just stand there all day and stare at my ass? Or are you going to tell me what you came in here for."

 _Damn, how did he know?_ "I brought you coffee. Well, a mix of cream and sugar with just a hint of coffee."

"Since when do you bring me coffee?" Thomas asks.

"Since when do you sleep in past noon?" Hamilton questions back. He walks into the room, because there's no going back now, and sets it down on the nightstand, sipping at his own. "You're not going to left me effort go to waste, are you?"

"You pushed a button on a machine and it made it for you," Thomas says.

"Hey, I had to figure out what buttons on your ridiculously fancy machine. And, i found the mugs, so, you're welcome."

"Not thirsty."

Hamilton sighs, taking another drink before setting his down too. "Listen, Thomas," he begins, sitting down on the bed. "You're never going to feel better if you don't _try."_

Thomas scoffs.

"Alright, yes, I'll admit, poor choice of words. But you've at least got to eat and move," Hamilton said. "Come back to work with me."

"Not today."

Another sigh from Hamilton. "Look, I'm not leaving until you decide to come with me, so," Hamilton steels himself and lies down next to Thomas. And by next to him, he means against him. While he's naked. Maybe part of his motive was to be against a naked Thomas, but it was mostly to provide Thomas the same thing Alex was provided while he was injured. Support.

"What. Are you doing?" Thomas asks.

"Cuddling you," Hamilton replies, slinging an arm awkwardly over him. "You need it."

"I'm naked."

"And? You used to help me bathe."

"Yeah, bathe. Not cuddle naked in my wife's bed."

"Well, only you're naked. Would you like me to strip too?"

"For God's sake," Thomas mutters.

Hamilton gasps. "Thomas, you're not having indecent thoughts in your wife's bed about another man while she's away, are you?" he asks. "Shame on you." It's Hamilton having those thoughts, not Thomas, and he is, once again, glad Thomas is not looking at his blushing face. Thomas doesn't respond this time, just letting Hamilton have his way. A minute or more passes and Hamilton's self-control steadily dwindles. His hand begins to feel along Thomas's skin. It pauses at his hip. "Maybe what you need is a distraction," Hamilton suggests, a bit hesitantly. Thomas stiffens as Hamilton's hand drifts to his ass. "I could provide that."

It was then that Thomas picked up his head and looked at Hamilton, disbelief in his eyes. "Who do you think you are?"

"Alexander Hamilton."

"What gives you the right-"

"Please, Thomas. Someone like you doesn't take in someone like me in the way that you did unless you're interested."

"I was being nice! Get your-"

"I'm trying to return the favor," Hamilton interrupts smoothly, reaching over and grabbing a coffee form the nightstand and sipping. His body remained pressed to Thomas' side and a hand resting on his ass.

"By trying to-"

"Well, your wife doesn't seem to be delivering."

Rage again flashes into Thomas' eyes, but this time, Hamilton is aiming for it, rather than that dead look Thomas has had. However, what he wasn't expecting is Thomas' body pinning him onto his back and pressing down on him. Coffee went all over the bed.

Well. Hamilton is aroused.

Thomas leans down close. "Don't you dare talk about my wife in such a manner. She is my light in this world and any slight you say against her is dirt on your grave."

Hamilton took the extra second to reply, just to make sure no embarrassing sounds came out of his mouth. "You're the one on top of me, Thomas. I certainly didn't put you there."

Thomas makes a disgusted sound and moves off and out of bed. He pulls on clothes. "Help me change the sheets. Then, I want you out of my house. You're never to come back here."

His feet hit the floor as Hamilton rolls out of bed, pulling the blankets off with him. The smirk on his lips is aimed at Thomas. "Got you out of bed, didn't I?"

Thomas stares at him, at a loss for words.

Hamilton had done all that just to get Thomas out of bed? At the risk of their carefully built relationship?

**\----**


	31. Team Effort

The thing about getting Thomas out of bed is, one, he didnt waste any time on changing the sheets, which really irritated Hamilton. Okay, maybe 'irritate' isn't the right word. However, Thomas had been true to his command after the bed possessed sheets that were not stained with coffee. So now, Hamilton stands over his small case, readying himself to leave the house.

All he has to do is go slow enough so that Martha chides Thomas for being rude when she gets home. Thomas wouldn't be able to defend himself. There's no way in hell he would tell his wife that Alex grabbed his ass. Which, in Alex's defense, he did not grab Thomas' ass. He lightly cupped it. There is a stark difference in Hamilton's eyes.

Either way, Thomas is not a fan, apparently. 

Which is understandable. He's married. And contrary to Hamilton's actions, he respected that. Okay, mostly respected that. Extremely bitter about it, but still respects it. Mostly.  
A soft knock sounds at Hamilton's door and turns to discover Martha Jefferson standing in the entry way, looking at him softly. "You're packing?"

Hamilton offers her a small greeting smile. "Ah, yes. I'm afraid I've been gone too long and must return to work," he says.  

She cocks and eyebrow and folds her arms. "You're saying this has nothing to do with you grabbing my husband's ass and him kicking you out as a result?" Hamilton swears her voice is carefully crafted porcelain cultivated in a royal court and perfect for not giving away the emotion behind her words.

She and Madison must get along swimmingly.

Thomas must have a type. 

"He told you?" Hamilton asks, truly shocked.

"In my defense, I didn't grab his ass. I lightly cupped it. And it only seemed as bad as it did to him because he was naked." Now would be a good time to shut up. "But, now this is where I'm actually defending myself as I realize that didn't help my case at all. Do you really think that him lying around like a depressed sack of potatoes is better for him than finding a way to vent his grief and anger? Why not send him off to work and make him grind his teeth to dull nubs debating against me? He'll at least be moving."

Silence passes before Mrs. Jefferson drops her arms and sighs. "You genuinely care for him, don't you? Despite the years of constant turmoil you've caused each other?"

Hamilton turns back to his bag, lamely resituating his few packed belongings as a distraction. "He took me in. Helped me. He didn't have to. Hell, I didn't even expect him to show up. And I know he paid my hospital bills. Those don't just mysteriously disappear. I _owe_ him. I hate owing people," he said. "The fact that seeing him like this kills me is the cherry on top."

Mrs. Jefferson walks in and gently lays a hand on his shoulder. "It kills me too. And as much as I don't like the idea of my Thomas being uncomfortable, I want you to stay. He's gotten so much more lively since you turned up and I can't stand the idea of him sinking back into the unreachable depths of darkness he achieved. He was pacing and muttering things under his breath when I walked in," she says with a wry chuckled. "I haven't seen that since the last board meeting you two shared."

Hamilton chuckles before turning and looking at her. "You know what I did and you actually want me to stay?"

"If you can, yes. Just no inappropriate advances. There are lines one mustn't cross."

Hamilton nods. "I understand," he says, placing his hand over his heart. "You have my word that I'll not cross them and I shall help as much as possible to get him moving again, like he did for me."

Martha smiles softly, sadly. "Thank you. I'm going to go talk to him. Make yourself at home." And with that, she's out of the room. He has to admit, Martha is an admirable woman. It's no wonder Thomas loves her so.

For now though, Hamilton unpacks  and then waits. The next time he encounters Thomas will no doubt be cold and distant. Nothing more than a formal gathering at the insistence of his wife. Hamilton knows that all the ground he covered in building a friendship of sorts, was now teetering on the edge, if not already completely demolished. 

A glint of light through the window of his bedroom gives him cause to walk over and look out. It won't be long before dinner time, and Hamilton has just the idea of where to begin.

\----


	32. Mincing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your author lives!

In hindsight, this is probably the worst idea Hamilton has ever had. And that’s saying a lot, coming from him. 

Is that steam or smoke? In either case, is it supposed to do that? Sweat drips from Hamilton’s  furrowed brow as he attempts to see to every little aspect that calls his attention. Thomas never makes it look this hard.

It had all started out simple enough. When, exactly, everything took a wrong turn, Hamilton can’t say. Nonetheless, it left him hopelessly trying to salvage the remains of his project. Not even the blaring of smoke alarm going off was enough to pull him from his frantic concentration.

The alarm couldn’t but the bellow of Thomas’ voice sure did. 

“What’s going on here?!” Thomas yells over the alarm.

“What-Thomas!” Hamilton threw his arms wide, trying to shield his project from view. Thomas folded his arms and a cocked on eyebrow, not even bothering with questions while the alarm blared in their ears. “Is that the smoke alarm?” Hamilton asks, looking around for it now that his concentration is broken. Thomas simply rolls his eyes, whips a chair around and stretches his tall frame up to the high ceiling, silencing the small but obnoxious alarm perching there. 

Once Thomas’ feet are solidly on the ground again, the chair being moved back to its proper placement, he asks, “What, are you doing?” in a flat tone. “And why aren’t you gone? I thought I made myself clear-”

“Ah! Well!” Hamilton began, raising a finger to start of his defense. "I couldn’t leave without at least bestowing a gift to serve as both my apology for my rude behavior, but also as a thank you for hosting me so graciously, in such a hard time, and with as sudden as it was.”

Thomas’ head tilts to the side as a pointed gesture to emphasize his next words. “And that is- what even is that?”

“I don’t know!” Hamilton grins excitedly. “It’s minced!”

“It’s burnt.”

“To charcoal!” Hamilton beams.

Thomas’ hand raises to his face in a gesture Hamilton has become very familiar with, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t even seem to have a proper response. What Thomas does do is drag a trash can forward, snatch the wooden spoon from Alex’s hand, and scrape every bit of blackened food out of his also blackened pan. Hamilton’s optimistic mood deflates. “That was mean.”

“You ruined my pans,” Thomas gripes irritably, inspecting them with a scrutinizing gaze.

Hamilton sighs softly, looking down. “I’m sorry, Thomas,” he says quietly. He misses Thomas’ sideways glance but can hear Thomas running his thumb along the metal.

“I suppose they can be saved,” Thomas says. Hamilton’s head snaps up, daring to let a sliver of hope grow in his chest.

“You think so?”

Thomas nods slowly, setting it down again, stacked with the other ruined pans, off to the side and lowering the temperature of the stove. “I’ll need eggshells and some diligence.”

“I’ve got all the diligence required,” Hamilton says, watching Thomas closely for any sort of change in mind. 

“Oh, I plan on making you stay up all night, scrubbing those pans until they’re spotless,” Thomas says, “But first, dinner. You and Martha need nourishment.”

“As does yourself,” Hamilton adds, giving him a pointed look. Thomas’ silence was his answer as the man inspects the remainder of whatever food Hamilton had not gotten his grubby little hands on, still left in the fridge and pantry. Soon enough, Thomas is setting out their new ingredients. 

“This will do,” he states, returning to the stove. Hamilton falls into place by his side naturally, to watch and possibly learn and participate. He watches Thomas’ still hands for what he suddenly realizes is an abnormal amount of time before his gaze snaps up to meet Thomas’, who is just staring at him. Ah. Hamilton steps off to the side, putting a healthy and comfortable distance between them. Thomas proceeds with his task, seemingly taking not even the slightest bit of pleasure in it. Like cooking was a chore rather than something he greatly enjoyed. 

Frankly, Hamilton would normally agree, if he couldn't remember the delight Thomas used to take in it. The humming that could always be heard from the kitchen while he cooks. The satisfying sizzles. The aromatic smell filling the house. The light in Thomas’s eyes and the greater delight whenever Hamilton proclaims its deliciousness. Now, it just seems stale and empty, turning the happy, colorful memories gray and bitter.

A while passes before Hamilton finally takes a small step forward. “I can help.”

“No.” An instant reply that made Hamilton’s heart sink. What is he supposed to expect? He brought this upon himself the moment he crossed a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Even if Hamilton had good intentions behind it. Because whether he wanted to or not, he cares.

“Why not?” Hamilton asks, his temper flaring.

“Because I only cook with people I care about,” Thomas says, looking ahead at nothing while clenching the spoon in his hand.

Silence.

It takes a lot to bring Hamilton to silence. This? 

Overpowering.

His throat tightens and his blood roars through his ears, yet freezes throughout his veins. Damn him. Damn Jefferson. Damn him to hell. Damn himself for just standing there with a fool’s expression.

“Fine,” Alex forces out, his word barely more than a push of air from his lungs. “I’m going home. And I’m taking full advantage of your absence.” Jefferson didn’t move, even when Hamilton turned on his heel and marched right out of the house, dropping the room for his stuff, and past a startled Mrs. Jefferson. 

The front door closed with a click of finality. 

 


	33. Confrontation

Two weeks. 

That's how long it is before Hamilton sees Jefferson at work again. The entire faculty breaths out a breath of relief at his return, simply because they've all been flooded with work in his absence. 

Hamilton does not let out the same breath. In fact, he pointedly ignores Jefferson. In everything. Small talk, business talk, glances, anything. He's petty like that. 

They survive a week like that. 

Funnily enough, the rest of the faculty seems to be preparing for a nuclear war. They watch and whisper any time Hamilton and Jefferson brush past each other. It feels like bomb shelters were being constructed. 

The sigh of relief became an eerie feeling settling over the entire building. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the pin to drop.

One day, it finally does.

It starts off normal enough. Hamilton is in his car, dealing with the normal morning traffic with extreme impatience. Several birds are flipped at other people. Horns blare. Everyone just wants to get to work on time and in one piece. 

It takta Hamilton all of half a second to start swearing and cursing out the person that just cuts through all of the traffic by going down the road between two lanes on a motorcycle. 

Most of his agitation is derived from the fact that Hamilton used to do the same thing. Right up until he smashed into an elk and completely totalled his motorcycle. Sometimes he'd find Jefferson going down the road in the same way and they'd race, dodging opening car doors and laughing at those who screeched at them. 

Wait, that is Jefferson!

It’s the magenta motorcycle he'd become so familiar with. The frame of Jefferson's body clad in black gear highlighted with the same annoying color of his bike is unforgettable to Hamilton.

His agitation morphs into fury. Jefferson is barely putting any effort at all into dodging car doors. He is going far too fast down the center of the lanes of the highway. He could get himself killed.

Ironic. 

Hamilton can remember Jefferson chiding him in the hospital room.  _ Dumbass. You should be dead.  _

Hamilton's hands squeeze the steering wheel. Jefferson is so dead when he gets to work.

The moment the elevator doors slide open, Hamilton yells loudly, not caring who else he startles. “Jefferson! Thomas Jefferson! You irresponsible ass! Where are you!”

Everyone points at Jefferson's office with wide eyes. Two seconds later, Hamilton is barging in, throwing his case and jacket off to the side as he marches up to Jefferson and forcefully stabs him in the chest with his finger. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he demands, looking up at him with fury. 

Jefferson's eyebrows knit together, standing his ground. “What're you talking about?”

“You. Hauling ass down the highway. A door tapped your rear fender five feet from me is how close you got to death.”

A scoff and Hamilton's hand is batted away. “You have no right to talk to me that way after you landed yourself in a hospital going over one hundred miles an hour.”

Hamilton's arms flail as his defense pours from his mouth. “It was different! It was an abandoned road! There was no one else but me! I wasn't putting anyone but myself in danger! You? What if you took somebody's daughter from them? A child? A mother? A father? A brother? You already know how that feels! Why would you risk causing someone else the same pain?”

“Hamilton,” Madison's voice cuts in. Hamilton hadn't even realize the man was sitting in chair in front of Jefferson's desk from the moment Hamilton walked through the door. “You're overdoing it.”

Hamilton looked up and met Jefferson's eyes. Tears were already streaming down his face and his eyes had taken on a far away look. “Shit,” he whispers, backing off some. “Thomas-” he reaches up and starts wiping away tears. “Thomas, look at me,” he said, forcing Thomas’ head down so their eyes could meet. “No one got hurt. It's alright. Just don't be so reckless again. And I won't be either.”

“What do you care?” Thomas finally bites out. 

“I just do. I care about you. You fucker. I hate you for it, but it's true. I care about being happy and content. I hate seeing you all-” Hamilton gestures to him. “Even your hair is deflated.”

Thomas reaches up and experimentally fluffs his own hair. “That's not even a thing.”

“I've told you before and I'll tell you again. Your hair is weirdly connected to your emotions and it's slightly disturbing.”

A second passes. “I didn't mean it,” Thomas says softly. “That I don't care about you. You're just so infuriating sometimes.”

A slow smirk stretches across Alex's face. “Infuriating or  _ infuriating?” _

“What's that even supposed to mean?” Thomas asks. 

“You're so gay.”

“I'm married.”

“Gay.”

“To a beautiful woman.”

“Self denying gay.”

Thomas let out an exasperated noise and pinched the bridge of his nose, causing Alex to grin. “You're impossible.”

“So, are you going to start making out?” James cuts in. “Or can we return to work now?”

Alex flipped James off while Thomas just chuckled. “Back to work. Get out miscreant.”

“He's talking to you,” Hamilton said to Madison. “You heard him, get out.”

Thomas looks down at him and then places his case and jacket back in his hands and pushes him out the door. “Bye Alex.” Then the door closes. 

Hamilton turns around, muttering, and sees the whole office staring at him. “What?” He demands. Everyone busily returns to work.


	34. Delivered Coffee

The world is crisp and cold. Black and gray and seemingly lifeless. Snow stained by the black water running off the busy New York streets, piling up in gutters and the sides of sidewalks. Black patches of ice like land mines, threatening even the most confident step with the punishment of broken ankles. Exhaust fumes visibly fill the streets and mingle with every individuals puff of exhaled air against the cold biting at their nose, ears, and fingers. The gray of buildings towering and blending into the gray clouded and smog filled sky. Even fresh snow seems gray in the world that is city life.

Winter is Thomas’ least favorite month. 

Perhaps it's beautiful in it own way, but even then, he finds it hard to appreciate the ice and harsh cold that bite to the bones. The trees look dead. Not a bit of Autumn's color clings to them. Nor the budding beauty of Spring. The simplicity of Summer. Just barren death. 

He hates it.

His hot breath puffs over his hands as he rubs them together, trying to warm them. It's not effective. His collar is turned up to fend off the wind even as it stirs his curls. It's moments like these he's glad to have worn a scarf. Next time, gloves. 

The door to his work swings open like an embrace of warmth. Thank God. His fingers curl around his scarf and tugs it looser and runs his hands through his hair the shake off the flecks of snow that had started to melt the moment he entered the heated building. 

Coffee. That's what he needs. 

The break room is as it has always been. Decorated in papers posted on the wall to remind of deadlines. Sticky notes plastered places to ask not to steal someone's lunch...for the eighth time. Not to leave dirty dishes and to clean one's own mess. There is one in particular that boosts Hamilton's messy scrawl. 

_ If you're making coffee, make some for two and bring Hamilton a cup. Black, no sugar.  _

_ Also, Jefferson, f*** off. _

Thomas snorts. How many people actually listen, he wonders. Eight minutes later, to his own surprise, he's poured two cups and was walking in the general direction of Hamilton's office with a thin folder tucked under his arm. 

Thomas remembers the time when they were near inseparable. Against Hamilton's will as he was in a wheelchair, but the sentiment still stands. 

He tries not to think about the events shortly thereafter.

The moment Thomas opens the door, he's greeted with, “Get out!” Thomas stands in the doorway and blinks at the shattered mug that smashed against the wall, now lying against the floor. 

“Is that the best way to start the day?” Thomas asked, looking up at Hamilton.

“Oh my God! Thomas! I swear I didn't know it was you,” Hamilton explains quickly.

“So the mug wasn't intended for me?”

Hamilton blinks. “No. See, if it were, it would've hit your perfect nose.”

Thomas laughs softly, stepping in and closing the door. “I see. If that's the case, both these cups are for me,” he hums, setting one down on Hamilton's desk.

“You brought me coffee?” Hamilton asks in disbelief. 

“Well, there was a note that said I must if I wanted coffee for myself,” Thomas says humorously. “And everyone knows sticky notes are the law of the break room.”

“Exactly right,” Hamilton smirks. 

It's been three months since Thomas returned to work. Since then, they've slowly gotten back to their old dynamics. For the most part. There were always rough edges to find. Fingernails bitten down to the raw and bloody stubs. Loose tongues forming pointed and harsh words toward the other’s work ethic and disposition. The workplace has long forgotten the worry and hardships the company faced when the two rabble rousers suddenly disappeared and now wished for them to suddenly vanish once more. 

But underneath it all, an unbalanced fondness for each other. While Thomas was weary of Hamilton after the events that took place at his house, he found it hard to stay away from the little miscreant. When he tried to bring himself to hate Hamilton, all he could see was the unbelievably small, crumpled body lying unconscious in the hospital room on that first day. Then all the tension would melt away.

Thomas slides the folder from under his arm and sets it under Hamilton’s desk. It’s hardly anything, but he needed a pretext to be here with the gift of coffee.

Hamilton squints at it. “What kind of flaming piece of trash have you just put on my desk?”

“Well, it’s not flaming,” Thomas points out.

A drawer slides open and then the sound of a lighter striking. Hamilton raises an eyebrow. “It’s about to be.”

“How many of those folders that you ‘lost’ have you actually burned?”

The answering snicker is an answer in itself. “More than you want to know.”

Thomas squints. “And that two inch thick one that I labored over? Did you burn that  one too?”

“No, actually!” Hamilton grins. “I lost that one.”

Thomas scoffed. “Enjoy your coffee, bastard.”

  
  



End file.
